Pretext
by Purple Uranium
Summary: There was a demon in Kohaku's skin. one-sided Miroku x Kohaku, Miroku x Sango, Kohaku x Sango semi-platonic
1. Fever

**Title: **Pretext  
**Summary:** Because everybody needs one. (The disease was forged in his blood.)  
**Pairing(s): **Miroku/Kohaku, Miroku/Sango, implied Sango/Kohaku  
**Disclaimer: **Not mine.  
**A/N: **This story will be between 2-3 chapters.  
**Warnings: **slash or male/male relationships. incest. chan. gore. angsty-Kohaku. Kohaku-sufferitis.

* * *

His fingers came away yellow.

Which was odd, really, because the last he remembered, blood was always supposed to be red, whether it was youkai or human or not. But then—no, that wasn't right, because he had seen blue blood, blood tainted with maggots and flies. He had seen black blood, green, white—all different kinds and colors, but all as disgusting as the next. He was used to it though, used to the thick, rich scent of the blood that was always around him whenever he made the kill (_something he was never made for, something he always fought against, but submitted to, regardless because…). _It all smelled the same, at least.

It was still yellow.

It had been red at first, warm and red, and for one quick, disturbing moment, he had thought to lick his fingers clean, but instead he merely smeared the blood over the blade of the kusarigama, watching as it dried and crusted on the dull surface. He had felt the chipped metal pull at the tender skin of his fingers, wondered for a second if he'd be cleaning his _own_ blood from the blade, but then there was that yellowish stain—reddish-yellow really, and it coated his fingers so strangely, so oddly, that he couldn't help but stare at it.

Sango was there, watching him, as was Miroku, and something was odd about the way that they were staring at the carnage all around them, something was different about it. There was a thick cold feeling working its way down his chest, into the pit of his stomach, and he could almost feel the sickness rise, could almost feel the heat of fever wash over him, and then the feeling was gone.

But the blood was still there. And it was still yellow.

"Kohaku." (_Sango._)

Her voice was gentle, soft, and a worried frown marred her face. Kohaku let his hand fall to his side and he turned to face his sister, his face neutral, blank, and he could see the way it hurt her, could see the way it cut through every defense she ever had. Because this was Naraku's face, the one he had owned so beautifully, the one Kohaku didn't mind giving, not ever. It protected him from other things, like how the monk was always so close, but so far away, and how had things gotten like this?

The remains of the blood burned on his fingers, and Kohaku wondered if Sango felt it, too.

"Kohaku," she murmured again, moving forward, her hand resting against her boomerang strap.

Always so careful. So fearful. He hadn't felt the pain in his back since before… well, he couldn't remember, but he knew it had something to do with the blood on his fingers and the face that belonged solely to Naraku (_that would, no matter how they fought against it, because Naraku molded him almost as well as Sango had._)

Even now, when he was becoming his family legacy (_a legacy made of blood and death and lives that hardly mattered, but should have, anyways_) they were always so cautious, always so frightened. Because it was so easy for him to leave, to run, and the heat that surrounded him as Sango touched his forehead was scorching against his paper thin skin, and something was wrong. Something was wrong and not right (_never right, never Sango_) but no one had noticed it yet. No one had noticed because they were too busy noticing him, and so what if it was Naraku's face? It was better than Sango's face, a face that would have been filled with tears and hatred and a thousand emotions Kohaku didn't think he could control and would never want to.

"Are you all right?"

He didn't know what type of question it was, whether he was supposed to answer, but he felt the fascination rising, growing, because the blade of the kusarigama was glinting yellow when it had only been red moments before. There was something wrong. Something not right.

Miroku's expression matched his perfectly.

"Sango-san," Miroku called quietly, and she turned her face away from her brother. She always did that, Kohaku realized, whenever he called. Always so quick to follow through with whatever command he was going to give, just like the willing, subservient wife she should have never been. But then he remembered that they weren't married, not like they were supposed to be. Never had the chance to.

Things were still so wrong.

"The villagers will be waiting for confirmation that the youkai is dead."

"Ah, right," Sango replied, and she was already moving away from him, from her brother and _(always)_ towards Miroku.

The blood glinted yellow once again, and he was entranced, just as he had been before. But then Sango was calling him again (_always calling, never forgetting, even though he had_) and he had to forget the blood despite the heat that continued to dance along his nerves. He wanted it to stop, but somehow, he didn't think it would.

So he followed, just like he knew he always would, despite the burning resentment hidden behind the face that was Naraku's.

The trek back to the village was unnaturally slow.

* * *

The next summons came on queue, never changing, because despite the world of difference Sango and her friends made, there was still too much violence and anger hanging about, choking the people of the land, and they were always too weak to handle it by themselves. Always relying on others. Screaming and running in terror.

Kohaku could almost hear them ricocheting off the far reaches of his mind, and he stared at his hands, wishing that the yellow tinted blood was back. Blood that made his veins burn in curiosity, because what else could it be?

Sango had worried over him constantly, but it was nothing more than another distraction to his already pressing problems, nothing more than some sick, twisted fantasy. And as hard as it had been to stay away from his sister, as hard as it had been to keep the slipping sanity away from her watching eyes, he had done it. Because Miroku was there. Because Miroku was always there, calling her name, diverting attention from him, and although he was grateful, it boiled his blood in a way that he never thought possible.

His fists clenched, and he could almost see the yellow ooze through his fingers, through hands scarred by his very own weapon, and his chest ached.

"Kohaku." (_Sango._)

He unclenched his fists and flattened them against his thighs, palms down. His scars weren't nearly as visible, but they were still there, and when he turned that horribly blank expression on his sister, he could see her flinch back, as though slapped.

The worry was shining in her eyes once again.

Kohaku hated it.

Sango regarded him quietly for a moment before a sigh hefted her chest, and Kohaku watched as it expanded then deflated, fascinated. But then his eyes strayed back towards her eyes, eyes that, if possible, portrayed a strange sort of indecision before Sango came to some sort of firm decision.

"We've been summoned," Sango answered, and Kohaku hated the way her voice sounded. He nodded slightly, refusing to talk. Sango opened her mouth once more, as though wanting to add something to that statement, but Kohaku's eyes were too blank. Too painful.

She turned and re-entered the hut instead.

Kohaku's sense of awareness heightened.

"Yes?" he asked quietly, and the almost non-existent rustle of fabric sent chills up his spine. Miroku was silent as he sat besides him, keeping his dark eyes off of the _marionettedollboy _beside him and on the sunset that turned the sky a myriad of beautiful colors that only reminded Kohaku of that beautiful, curious yellow blood.

The annoyance spiked painfully within him as the silence continued, but Miroku had always been a monk, a man of patience, and Kohaku knew that the older man was just waiting for his to wear thin. Kohaku didn't care. He didn't want to be there, not next to the only person who could make his sister forget that he existed.

But then again, it had always been a half-existence to begin with, so it would make sense if Sango could only half-remember, and the scars were suddenly bulging on his colorless hands, thick white lines that seemed to map out a perfect diagram of a distorted web. A spider's web.

(_Naraku's web._)

Perhaps this had been his final assault, his final act of resentment, because why else would Kohaku be living that horrible life, only half-remembered and half-existing? It made so much sense, and the fact that he was still nothing more than marionette controlled by someone else's hands left a sick feeling in his stomach.

"I am beginning to think that bringing you along would be detrimental to our cause."

Miroku's voice was clear and insistent, and the half-thoughts disappeared almost instantly. Kohaku didn't say a word, just stared out over the quiet village.

The silence stretched on continuously, but Kohaku had gotten used to silence, gotten used to the way the fog reverberated through the contours of his mind, and although Miroku was better at it than he was, Kohaku still knew how to play the game.

(_Naraku led him well._)

Kohaku was still the first to break.

"I'm going."

Miroku's brow furrowed at the quiet tone, and without looking at the older man, Kohaku could already see the thoughts running through his head. Thoughts that were lies. Thoughts that were plans. Thoughts that were things Kohaku could never hope to think, but strived for anyways. Thoughts that Sango always asked to hear, because at least Miroku _could_ think, and even though Kohaku thought in half-thoughts and half-strands, they were still halfway there, so they had to matter. He wanted them to.

They never did.

The anger was hot as it surged to the forefront, and the scars bulged again as Kohaku's fists tightened. Then he was standing, because sitting so close to the man who took his sister away (_always when it counted, never when it didn't_) was stifling and difficult, and the hate was still strong.

"Why are you here?" Kohaku asked suddenly. But Miroku wasn't blindsided (_never could be_). He just curved his lips into another smile, this one kind and cautious, and Kohaku scowled.

"While I think you are a talented demon slayer," he began cordially. "I believe this is a summons that should be handled by Sango and me." He paused, and Kohaku's anger spiked at tone. "Alone."

"I'm _going_," Kohaku reiterated, and he turned to leave.

"You really don't like being without her, do you?"

It was spoken so softly, so gently, that Kohaku couldn't help but stop. His body tensed and his eyes narrowed. He could feel the gentle smile adorning the monk's face as he thought of Sango, of something that didn't belong to him, of something that was supposed to be Kohaku's and Kohaku's alone and—blood could be red, _too_. Kohaku knew this as intimately as he knew death, because he had seen red blood, seen it spurting from open, festering wounds. Seen it spilling from jagged, scarred skin and—he had spilled it once, taken it from children and women and men, just as his master had ordered.

But puppets were always supposed to do as their masters ordered, even when they didn't want to. The strings had been driven in too tightly, controlled too stiffly, and there were times when Kohaku was meant to kill Sango, _too_.

But he never did. Never could. Never _wanted_ to.

Because he was hers, and she had told him not to.

(_He could never not listen to her, even when he didn't want to._)

"Why are you here?" Kohaku asked again.

Miroku stood then, and walked towards the boy, his robes rustling as his feet scraped against the wood underfoot. It grated on Kohaku in a way he never thought possible. It rankled and irked and Kohaku knew why it always bothered him, being so near the monk, because he took from everything and gave little. But Kohaku never gave anything anyways and he knew that Miroku was waiting, just as he had waited for Sango. Just as Naraku had waited for him.

The strings tightened painfully, but Kohaku ignored them, barely sparing Miroku a glance as he came to a stop next to him.

"Do you hate me, Kohaku?" Miroku asked as he leaned forward to inspect the younger boy's face. Kohaku scowled, hating the way the monk was acting so curious, hating the fact that he thought he should know (_taking, taking, never giving)_, hating the fact that he was so selfish.

"No." _Yes._

"Ah," Miroku answered genially, his lips curving up into a curious smile. "That's good then."

The irritation spiked again, and Kohaku's fists clenched. "_Why_—"

"Sango would be sad," Miroku continued over him, that same magnanimous smile stretched over his face.

_She wouldn't miss you,_ Kohaku lied venomously, longingly.

_Hmm, but she wouldn't miss you, either. (Never did)._

"She doesn't—"

"Love me?" Miroku interrupted, settling a hand on Kohaku's shoulder gently. It was hot and heavy, and left him feeling angry, but he didn't try to dislodge it. "Hmmm," he continued imploringly. "I think she does." He paused again, and Kohaku felt the anger bristling. "What are you so afraid of?"

"_Nothing,_" Kohaku murmured, jerking away from the monk's touch. "I—you don't _need_ her."

Miroku just smiled.

The silence settled thickly over them, and Kohaku could feel the half thoughts piling up again, could still feel the heat of Miroku's hand against his shoulder even though it had left, even though it was gone (_but everything was never there, never when he needed it)_ and he hated the way Miroku continued to smile at him, hated the way he continued to regard him with those dark, horrible eyes. They were so kind, so gentle, so—_not real_—and he hated the way Sango turned to them, always always _always._

Kohaku was the first to break.

"I won't leave her," he said quietly, and Miroku tilted his head towards him curiously.

"I didn't think you would," he replied, turning around to leave. He took a few steps, his robes rustling, and Kohaku could feel them as they brushed against the scars of his hands, burning and hot and uncomfortable.

"Then why did you…?" Kohaku asked, turning to face the retreating monk. Miroku glanced at him carefully, his eyes unnaturally unreadable.

"Because you make her sad."

The reeds lifted slowly, carefully, and Miroku ducked his head disappearing in the hut quietly.

Kohaku's scars bulged as he tried not to scream.

Sango made him sad, _too_.

* * *

He thought not to go, but as soon as it entered his mind, the thought flittered through the gentle breeze, and all he could see was red. Red for Sango. Red for Miroku. Red for _him._

Colors flashed through his mind, black and pink and purple and teal and—_yellow_—

The chain of his kusarigama was heavy as he fastened it to his hip, but he ignored it, even as he exited his room to find Miroku and Sango waiting patiently.

Miroku's face was blank; Sango's was sad.

Kohaku forgot how to exist.

(_Again.)_

* * *

He bled rivulets of red.

Red that was sticky and warm, but cold to the touch, because no one could wipe away the stain on his soul.

They had tried, so valiantly, so pointlessly, but still they had tried, and part of him wanted to thank them. Part of him wanted to take them by the hands and whisper _thank you_, because no one besides Sango had ever cared, and now there was another. Another whose name he had forgotten to remember, and probably wouldn't remember, because even though he had thought to care, Kohaku knew it was just because of Sango.

Because Sango was strong and graceful and everything he _wasn't_, so there was no point in pretending, not really, and if it hadn't been for him _(always there to blame, always there to lay waste, just like he wanted) _the hatred wouldn't be nearly as strong.

But there were moments of absolution, moments of clarity that shocked even him, and when he saw them outside of the feverish poison, saw the fire that clashed between them, even when it shouldn't, and accidents were never meant to happen.

But demon claws had been rough and vicious, and rivulets of red had changed from yellow to orange to blue and black—_he was human—_and blood wasn't supposed to be so cold or dry, but when her scream broke through the façade that kept him grounded through the agony, he could feel the face he built start to crumble, could feel the darkness receding even though it begged to choke him like a thick, poisonous miasma. One he was familiar with. One that haunted him.

One that comforted him.

And he hated to admit it because there was no way he should have ever felt something so disgusting, but the pain was burning him alive, hot and fierce and he could remember being non-existent, but still _existing_, and even as she fell to her knees beside him, pressing her strong hands to his chest (_warmsoftgentleprotectme)_ he knew that there had to be something better than this. Something better than this half-existence, because he could feel it eating away at him from inside, dark and potent and oh so wrong.

The rings of the shakujou jangled as they got closer, the sound musical to his ears, but it was one that hated. Because when she was near _(Sango, Sango, always Sango)_ he was never far behind, and _gods_ he wanted that to stop, because she was the only thing that made him feel alive.

He was the only one that could take it away.

"Kohaku?" Sango asked gently, and there was a worry in her voice. A worry that he could do without, because why worry when war was what he lived for? Battles and death and bloodshed and it hardly mattered if it was own, even if he was afraid to die. Because repentance only came in so many forms, and repentance was something he had yet to do, and perhaps that was why the sickness was churning so deeply inside of him, half life and half lies, because someone could never _half-exist_, only be non-existent and—

The fever crept up on him, choking him, suffocating him, and it was only when the staff jingled once more that his mind was coming back to him. It was only when he saw Sango's dark eyes looking down on him that he remembered he couldn't do it, not then, not now, not when his mind was only half way in tact, even if it did want to creep away from him. Even if it did want to reced back into the nothingness that kept the guilt from killing him.

"Aneue," he managed to whisper, and he could almost sense the poisonous thick of blood wash over his tongue.

Sango's lips were red and parted, and he could feel her breath on his cheek, could see the worry in her eyes, but the nothingness was coming back, and his chest was wet and sticky, but warm, even when it should have been cold. It had been cold, especially when claw had gone through his ribs, because nothing could ever burn as cold as pain. And he was used to pain, used to devastation, especially when the marionette strings gripped his skin with tight, vicious jerks of power.

But that power was gone, and the light that burned at his back was gone, leaving nothing but a dull ache to forget him by, because why would he want to remember?

But Sango hated the blankness, hated the face that belonged to the marionette, and part of her was still afraid. Still afraid that she would have to take that final blow, afraid that she would have to pull out her sword, just as she had done so many times before. So many times, and he had just watched her blankly, forgetting because he didn't want to remember.

The shame was almost as intoxicating as the fever, and just as the monk bent down to inspect him, he could see Sango's lips moving, could see her chest heaving and—

Words spilled from her mouth like poison, moving and stretching and morphing, and he could see the purple mists settling over him again, could see the darkness shift until his sister no longer existed _(just like him, never existing, never alive)_, but he could still hear the gentle jingle of the shakujou, comforting and calming.

But _oh,_ Kohaku thought as the darkness closed in, laughing and mocking. He could see the image playing in front of his eyes again, could feel the claw ripping him from the inside out and poison had never tasted so sweet, not even when he was dangling from the strings of his master like a crumpled little marionette.

And then the strings twisted, beautifully, frighteningly and (_whisperswhisperswhispers, still calling to him, still wanting_) his body was twisting and his bones crunching, and this was not something he had ever wanted to become, not this empty shell, even if he already was. The strings weren't controlled by him, had never been, and Kohaku was so used to the nothingness that he accepted it, even when it erupted in flames around him.

Sango screamed, but he didn't hear.

The fever was so much sweeter.

* * *

They failed. In every sense of the word.

People fought, people cried, people ran. They died, and like a subtle sigh caught in the wind their lives were snuffed out, bloody and violent and unneeded. Children had been lost, women slaughtered, and men left to work through the desperate fog of uncertainty as the creature was left, spared by the demon slayers, to escape.

Hatred came in waves. Waves that Sango didn't know how to handle, waves that Miroku bore with a strained smile, his eyes less dark than usual, but his gaze heavier than it needed to be. Darkness was like a disease, spreading throughout the little village, and Kohaku was nothing more than a broken, decrepit little boy that hovered on the edges of life and death, bleeding dry what once made it possible for him to exist.

But he didn't.

He didn't, and Sango knew he couldn't. Knew it like she knew her own name, like she knew her own heart, and the tears threatened to spill, threatened to choke her and maim her and the anger spiked hotly in her. It was a festering infestation that was only battled back by worry and despair, because Kohaku couldn't leave her, not _now_. Not when she needed him. Not when she _longed_ for him.

(_But things would never be the same, not again, not like they should be._)

Fever was poison to her brain, and the poison arced through her brothers veins as he thrashed and screamed and pleaded with people that weren't there, but he thought were anyways. Fingers scratched and pulled and tore through flesh, leaving more scars even though Kohaku had enough for the three of them.

Sweat clung to his body, slicked his hair, and Sango watched as his skin turned red and the skin on his lips went dry. She watched as tears leaked between his closed eyelids repeatedly, watched as the wound on his torso refused to heal, watched as his bandages were redred_red._ She saw the heat consume him, saw death tug on him restlessly, and oh how she wanted to save him, wanted to heal him, but there was nothing she could do—_absolutely nothing._

Kagome was a distant thought of a distant dream, and she never left anything that could heal, that would help break through the fever that was consuming her brother as quickly as it could.

He came to in random spurts of consciousness, but they never lasted long. There was hatred and anger in his voice. Need. Want. He ate and drank sporadically, but it was all choked down with a bitterness that Sango didn't know existed. It ate her alive because he wasn't supposed to be this way, not after he had been saved, not after the final sacrifice that should had freed him from his nightmares. But the nightmares were there, and he _blamed_ her for _everything._ Blamed himself. Blamed _Miroku._

Miroku couldn't calm her any longer. His hands were hot against her cold skin, and she took and took and took, but it never made a difference. Kohaku's expression wasn't blank, wasn't gone, wasn't non-existent, but he _was_ and—oh, how delirious he had become, how frightened. How sick.

Ugly.

Insane.

He called for her.

She couldn't answer.

Time rolled by like battered scenery, and Kohaku was still delusional and ill, but the youkai ravaged everything in sight. She could feel it prickling on the edge of her senses, taunting her, teasing her, and it was hard trying to repress the anger. Kohaku's skin grew paper thin and pale—she could see his veins weaving an interesting pattern, bulging slightly against the restraints, and the more she saw them, the harder it became.

She was breaking.

Regrets meant nothing unless Kohaku was awake, but he wasn't.

She wanted to whisper assurances in his ear, wanted the horrible heat of his body to disappear as she laid beside him, wiping the sweat from his face. From his arms. His chest. Legs. Back.

The sweat came away just as easily as the blood did, and it ravaged her in a way she never thought possible.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. Not when he was healing. Not when everything was _working—_

(_but not.)_

"He's not getting any better," she whispered as Miroku curled his fingers around her wrist, tugging her towards him. His face was blank, as blank as Kohaku's, except Kohaku couldn't _be_ expressionless, not when he writhed and cried in pain. Sango knew this. It was impossible.

"It takes time, Sango," Miroku answered, his voice lilting as he said her name.

It sounded like poison.

"Mi_roku_—"

"It takes time," he said once again, quietly. His lips brushed against her temple, but she could tell he was uncertain. His face betrayed nothing, but his eyes said all.

At least she liked to think so.

They reminded her of poison, too.

"I don't know what to do. Nothing's _working_." Her voice was bordering on hysterical, and she could feel herself drawing away from the heat, into the cool, desperate solitude that once pervaded her mind. She was helpless. So helpless.

She wanted her brother. Needed him.

He wasn't there.

Miroku didn't answer. He just adjusted his grip on her arms, held on tighter, careful not to let her slip away.

It wasn't working.

Nothing was.

Sango knew this.

Time rolled by like battered scenery. Kohaku screamed and cried and tears slipped through his closed eyelids. Blood welled up on his chest, soaking his bandages. Ointment was greasy and oily and coated her fingers so disgustingly, but she could see the edges of his wound, puckered and red. Could see it healing. Blood slipped through the cracks of the half formed scab, and oh gods, this was not how it was supposed to be.

It wasn't working.

Fever was poison to her brain, poison on her lips as she kissed his sweaty forehead, and the delirium crept up in waves, trying to over take her.

Still, he didn't wake.

But he couldn't die. Not then. Not with her. Not when everything was finally _working—_

Time rolled by like battered scenery.

Desperation choked her.

Miroku's words were poison.

His touch left fiery trails cross her skin, left her aching and arcing into him, seeking a heat that only he could give.

Kohaku woke in sporadic fits of awareness, but he still wasn't there. His skin was red and his lips dry and chapped, but he choked down food and water whenever he could.

It wasn't working.

The youkai taunted her, taunted her, _taunted her—_

Greasy. Oily. Blood and scabs and Kohaku, _oh gods Kohaku_—

"I _hate him_."

Sango's heart clenched as she wiped away the blood from her brother's wound, as she listened to his raspy voice, as she saw the fever leave beads of sweat across his forehead.

"Who?" she asked quietly, gently, attempting not to startle him.

His eyes were yellow with fever, but then Miroku was entering the room, his robes rustling quietly. Kohaku's fingers curled harshly around her wrist, and he was hot, so hot, so unhealthy, so sick, so—

He couldn't die. Not then. Not with her. Not when _everything—_

Kohaku's yellow eyes settled on Miroku. Sango gave him some water. Kohaku choked it down absently, fading in and out of consciousness.

The youkai reared then, his youki prickling violently against her senses.

"Who?" she asked again, almost desperately, but Kohaku's eyes never left Miroku.

His fingers relaxed around her wrist.

Sango wanted him to hold on.

He didn't.

"_Him_," he breathed out angrily, violently.

Sango's heart clenched. "Ko_haku_," she breathed, her chest heaving slightly. "Don't—"

"Sango," Miroku said quietly, his hot hands grabbing her arm and heaving her to her feet.

Kohaku's lips twisted. Cracked. Bled.

Sango tried to reach out to him.

It wasn't working.

"I hate you," Kohaku said to Miroku, but the sweat was already beginning to roll down his forehead. His eyes were already beginning to close.

"No," Sango whispered, struggling against Miroku's hold. "Kohaku, please, please just _look at me._"

It wasn't working.

He didn't.

"He's dying," Miroku said sometime later as Sango wiped away the blood, disregarding the way it soaked through the cloth and stained her fingers.

"_No_," Sango said vehemently, ignoring his poisonous words. Allowing the hate and anger to fester.

The youkai was still taunting her.

Kohaku shuddered.

His body arced.

Taunting, taunting, _taunting_—

"He's—"

"—_not dead!_"

Miroku frowned, and he placed his hand against Sango's shoulder.

It was all she needed.

Sango broke.

Miroku pulled her away, cradling her to his chest.

Kohaku's blood was still on her fingers.

It stained them yellow.

* * *

"I'm going to kill it," Sango whispered.

Miroku nodded, releasing her.

"I don't know what else to do," she confessed.

Miroku didn't answer.

"Watch him," Sango pleaded, hefting her boomerang onto her back.

Miroku smiled at her.

"Of course," he answered, and Sango let out a sigh, her eyes burning.

"He doesn't hate you," she whispered, but Miroku's lips just twitched slightly.

Sango couldn't hold his gaze. Her eyes dropped to the floor.

"I'll see you soon," Miroku said a few seconds later; his lips brushed her temple.

Sango nodded, unable to answer, and looked in on Kohaku.

He was still sick. The fever still gripped him.

Her fingers were still yellow.

The youkai taunted her.

"Take care of him," she said, turning to leave.

Miroku smiled and regarded her curiously.

Sango left.

The youkai stopped taunting her.

Kohaku stopped screaming. Stopped crying. Stopped thrashing.

A few seconds later, his fever broke.

* * *

Consciousness gripped him violently, angrily, and he could feel something cool against his forehead. His chest was hot—too hot, hotter than he was used to—but the delirium he had felt so many times before was gone. His could feel his limbs—so thick, so heavy—weighing him down, refusing to move. His throat was tight and sore and _raw_, and if he tried, Kohaku was certain that he could speak up blood.

He didn't want to.

But his head was aching almost as fiercely as his chest, and it was all he could do to open his eyes.

The sun light was sharp and agonizing against his eyes, but he just lifted a heavy limb and tried to shield it from his face. Tried, but he could still see the light filtering in through this fingers, fingers stained yellow and—Kohaku frowned, trying his best to ignore the disgusting, cottony feel of his mouth.

His sense came back, little by little. It was easier to move than it was to feel, because with feeling came pain, and he was suffering from it in abundance. It was something that was almost not-there, almost non-existent, but existed anyways. He could feel the soreness of this throat, the thickness of his tongue, the heaviness of his limbs. And he could see. And taste. And oh, how he wished he couldn't do either, because it was so _disgusting_, so _painful_, but it happened anyways.

Everything played in slow motion around him, moving and shifting, but there was no sound to accompany it. Nothing but the sight of his scars hovering above him in a silent remembrance.

Kohaku couldn't bring himself to feel despair. Couldn't bring himself to feel anger. Remorse. _Regret._

He was so tired.

So, so tired.

_Kohaku._

But he could smell. He could smell something so wonderful and delicious and—

_Kohaku._

Fingers wrapped gently around his own, hot and searing, and _oh_ how he could feel that.

They were familiar somehow.

_Kohaku._

He wanted to sleep, but fingers were running comfortingly across his forehead, and he found he didn't want to. He wanted the warmth, wanted to continue feeling the heat searing across his skin, because he had never felt anything so _wonderful_, so—

"Kohaku."

His eyelids fluttered slightly, and he turned at the sound of shifting robes.

"Ffff," he rasped, and something cool touched his lips. He opened his mouth and drank greedily, relishing in the taste of water against his throat. It was quenching. It brought relief.

It was pulled away to soon so he leaned forward to take more, but hands, hands that were warm and wonderful and great held him in place, setting the ladle aside, running through his hair.

"Kohaku," the voice said again, and Kohaku suddenly remembered where he heard it, remembered where he knew it, and—

"Where's Sango?" he rasped, tensing as the hands stilled.

Miroku shifted slightly. "She left."

Pain like nothing Kohaku ever felt before pierced him, and he closed his eyes once more.

Oh, how he just wanted to _sleep._

(_But he never could, not with them around, not with _him_ around, and somehow, he didn't want to _anyways.)

"She went to slay the demon that injured you."

Kohaku pulled away from his grasp then, and Miroku's hands slid away fluidly, without a problem. It hurt to look at him, to see the one person he never wanted to caring for him, but Kohaku could remember so easily, even with his half-thoughts which were halfway there, how the demon had swooped down on him. How it had clawed its way into his skin, ripping and tearing and _oh_, the _pain._

"I want Sango," he whispered petulantly. Childishly.

Miroku's lips curved into a smile.

"So do I," he replied, and Kohaku whipped around to glare at him.

"_Why?_" he asked harshly, but all it did was leave him hacking and coughing painfully. He didn't bleed words, but he was close to it, and Kohaku hated it. Hated the fact that Miroku could see his weakness without having any of his own.

"Same as you, I'd imagine," Miroku answered pleasantly.

Kohaku wasn't fooled.

"You—you're—"

"Are you hungry?" Miroku asked, and Kohaku reeled from the sudden change in subject. He nodded slightly, feeling incredibly weak, but Miroku merely gave him more water and some food—food that was wonderful, even if it wasn't nearly as good as Sango's. Food that made him devour it, even if Miroku did tell him to slow down. Food that made him sleepy and tired and oh, how nice it would have been to just close his eyes and sleep the rest of the day away.

But his skin was crusted with sweat, and he could smell himself though he tried not to.

Miroku sponged him down sometime later, but his hands were too hot, even through the coolness of the water.

He drank some more, but his throat was still sore and his body still weak.

But he didn't forget, not even when Miroku woke him so he could eat some dinner, not even as Miroku helped him dress into a clean yukata, not even as he changed Kohaku's bandages once again. The scab on his chest leaked blood almost constantly, it was so hard to move, so disgusting to see, because it stained Miroku's fingers yellow. Yellow, yellow, _yellow—_

"She left me," Kohaku whispered sometime later, his eyes burning. "Why did she leave?"

Miroku turned to regard him curiously. "Kohaku—"

"I called for her and called for her and she never came," he continued, his weak hands covering his face in despair. "I just wanted her there with me, but she left. Why did she _leave?_"

"I don't know," Miroku answered after a moment of silence, his voice unnaturally blank.

Kohaku glared at him through tear stung eyes.

"Yes," he answered raspy. "You do. You know _everything_ about her. You know. Don't lie."

Miroku's lips quirked upwards in amusement. "I didn't think I was."

"_Liar,_" Kohaku spat, his hands clenching and his scars bulging. "She would tell you." Kohaku paused as his throat closed up on him, but he fought through the pain, wanting to finish. "She _loves_ you." (_Always.)_

Miroku's dark eyes crinkled in amusement, and he nodded slightly. "Yes. I believe she does."

"Then… then _tell me." _Kohaku felt so pathetic then. So desperate. So _delirious—_

"What would you like to know?" Miroku inquired gently, and Kohaku never hated him more than he did in that moment. Never thought he could and oh—_oh—_why couldn't he just leave? Why did he even have to be there? Why did Sango ever have to choose _him?_ Why why why why _why—_

"Tell me why," Kohaku said slowly, his chest aching. "Tell me why you chose her, and I'll give you my blessings."

Miroku's lips curved into a charming smile, a smile that Kohaku hated because Sango _loved_ it and—he clenched his hands into fists, even as Miroku turned around and left him there, all alone. Kohaku wanted to dig his fingers into his chest, wanted to break his skin apart and feel it _bleed_ because Sango was _his_ and—

(_She loved Miroku, always._)

He had gotten nowhere, and Miroku had won.

Just like always.

* * *

They didn't talk the next morning, didn't even make eye contact, but as he sat there, picking at his rice, Kohaku knew he wanted to speak to him again.

He wanted to know so many things (_things he could never know, could never understand_) but every time he tried to ask, the bitterness lodged itself in his throat. How had he lost? How had things slipped out of his control so easily? It was Sango's job to protect them (_always protecting, even if they didn't need it_) to keep them fed and safe, and Miroku was just a monk, living off of the good will of others. What good was he? What good were they? Always feeding off of Sango like disgusting parasites, wondering why why why why _why_, and there was never any answer, not really, because Miroku never _gave_ one.

Kohaku wanted to hate him. He _did_ hate him, but it continually twisted and churned in his stomach until it became something unrecognizable. Something that tasted like dry blood on the blade of his kusarigama. Something he could never understand.

But he wanted to, so desperately. He wanted to forget that Miroku was just human like he was, even if Sango saw him as something more. Sango wouldn't tell him either, wouldn't tell him anything, and it wasn't _fair_ because he had her first and _Kohaku was always being left behind._

The rice tasted stale on his tongue, but he ate it anyways.

* * *

It was taunting her.

Drifting in and out of shadows, pretending to slip up, but never managing to.

Sango could feel the anger increasing. Could feel the hate bubbling. Festering.

_Kohaku._

She wanted to kill.

And she would.

_Kohaku._

It was her fault really, when she thought about it. Miroku had warned her, told her of his suspicions, but she thought Kohaku could handle it. Knew he could. Naraku was nothing more than a distant memory in their minds, but he haunted them frequently. Constantly.

Kohaku more so than anyone.

It was in his eyes, in his face. There was nothing there, nothing existing, and it hurt Sango to see him that way, hurt her to see him drifting further and further away from her. He had been there before, healthy and well and _existing, _but he didn't exist anymore. Not like he was supposed to. She didn't know why he changed, just that he _had, _and that hurt too, more than anything.

_Kohaku._

But Miroku was there, comforting and strong and—_poisondeathdelirium—_steady. Warm and hot and searing and everything she had never expected, but wanted anyways. It was so easy falling into the life that he had offered, so easy confiding in him, so easy trusting him.

_Kohaku._

He hated Miroku.

_Kohaku._

Sango didn't know what to think. It was hard, at first, dealing with it. But when the stench of illness, death and blood had dispersed, she could see Kohaku's fever stained eyes watching Miroku blankly, his words nothing more than a quiet whisper that Sango wanted to forget.

_Kohaku._

But she couldn't.

_Kohaku._

He hated Miroku.

_He's dying._

But he wasn't dead.

And briefly, as Sango crouched into the foliage and felt the youki pricking around her, teasing her, taunting her, _blaming her_, she thought that she could hate him, too.

_Kohaku._

If only for her brother.

_Miroku._

But her heart yearned for him, too—_poisondeathdelirium—_even if Kohaku's didn't. Even if he couldn't understand. Even if he _wouldn't._

_MirokuKohakuloverbrotherpoisondeathdeliriumhe's—_

"Not dead," Sango whispered desperately, her fingers curling around the hilt of her katana as the youkai stopped moving, stopped taunting. Waited.

The muscles in her legs clenched tightly and she could feel Kirara crouching low beside her, ready to pounce.

The youkai twitched, its sickening, twisted smile splitting its face. Laughing. Waiting. _Taunting._

_Kohaku._

Waiting. Waiting. Wait—

"He'll die."

The dam broke. Anger erupted.

Sango struck.

Kohaku. Everything she had done was for Kohaku.

It wouldn't change.

* * *

It's like talking to a wall, but worse, Kohaku thought as he turned to stare at the older man. He asked and asked and _asked_, but Miroku never said _anything_, just smiled that annoying, enigmatic smile and acted like all was fine in the world. But it wasn't, Kohaku hated, and the older man knew. Kohaku wasn't under any illusions of grandeur, not the way that Sango was, and he could tell that Miroku was getting tired of waiting for this or that. Kohaku could almost see the itch in Miroku's fingers as he sat beside him in absolute silence, keeping him company but leaving him to feel so alone. He hated the feeling of solitude almost as much as he was beginning to hate the older man, and if Miroku would just _talk_ to him, things would be easier and things could get _better._

_(But things will never be better, not when he has Sango.)_

And it always came back to that. The thought was fierce and bright in his mind, drawing Kohaku so effortlessly into the self-pity and self-hate. There were things that could have been done to prevent it, Kohaku knew that. If only he had been stronger, if only he had been faster, if only he had been smarter. He knew when Sango thought the if-thoughts, not truly aware that Kohaku had noticed. She thought of them frequently when he was around, screaming for him during the night, and that was when he knew that she was _his_, but Miroku always managed to take that feeling of victory away with his too warm hands, and his too hot body but his too cold words. He made Sango do things that Kohaku couldn't even bear to _think_ about, and it always left Kohaku feeling angry and hateful afterwards.

He could hear them (_and he was always listening, always waiting for the day when Sango would come to him just to make sure he existed, even if he wasn't sure whether he was real or not, _either) as they moved together, and whenever it happened, Kohaku always saw red, always felt things he shouldn't have been feeling, especially since Sango was so _happy—_

(_But it was because of him and not Kohaku, and Sango was supposed to love her brother more, always had, until now._)

Kohaku didn't want to remember the pain, so instead, he turned his attention outward.

Miroku had taken him to the porch that morning, walked beside him so quietly that Kohaku had almost forgotten he was there. People were walking about and didn't hesitate to stop by and exchange a few pleasantries with the older man, even turned to him to ask about his well being, but Kohaku couldn't find it in him to say anything. His blank stare was more than a bit disturbing, but he couldn't care less about anything anymore, except that Miroku never said _anything_, and the sun was bright and warm, even if he couldn't really feel it. He took breakfast out on the porch, staring blankly at everyone, and wished he was with Sango. He hated hunting and killing, but at least he could be near his sister and away from the desperate anger that he couldn't help but feel whenever he was around the monk.

He ate his breakfast slowly, hoping to ease the pain, but it was still there, even as he finished it.

Miroku took his tray without another word, and Kohaku remained on the porch, his blankets draped loosely around his shoulders, even in the heat that he didn't notice.

* * *

The next day was worse by far, because even though Kohaku knew that his wounds were healing, it felt as though they remained opened and bleeding. He quite liked the feeling, no matter how sickening it really was, and for one perverse moment, he wanted to see his blood spilling down the front of his bandages soaking his clothes. It would be so pretty and red, and his fingers would come away yellow as he wiped them against the blade of his kusarigama.

Sometimes, when he felt like this, he wished he could go back to the nothingness that came with Naraku's nightmarish control. Sango would hate him if she ever found out, but he couldn't help it. It was bliss compared to the dark thoughts he was thinking now, even if it came with a pain he didn't truly understand. At least Naraku had been able to take away his pain. Sango continually added to it with her vicious little words and the way that she continually looked at the monk, when she loved him when—

He gripped his blankets tightly and stared blankly at the wall, hating the fact that he was the first to wake up.

Kohaku wanted to know what made Miroku so special. He wanted to know what made Sango so special to Miroku and Miroku so special to Sango and just where he would fit into their relationship in the long run. Would he be the annoying little brother who continually annoyed his sister? Would he always be viewed as nothing more _than_ a little brother? Someone who was unimportant and unwanted and—

_But that's not true because Sango does want me, just not in the way that I want her to._

Almost tiredly, Kohaku turned his attention away from the wall and gazed at his hands, the brown fabric of his blanket clenched tightly between his fingers. His skin was pale and thin, something he wasn't used to seeing. It was imperfect, scarred, and he could see the pink jagged lines against the roundness of his knuckles, even in the poor pre-dawn light. Sango had been the one to stitch them up, had been the one to wrap them in the cool cloth that had stained red so quickly that his wounds needed to be re-stitched.

She had been exasperated then, irritated that Kohaku had allowed himself to get injured during something so _trivial_, but even his father had told him that he wasn't cut out for such a job, that he was too kind hearted (_not weak willed, not at all, but the past spoke for itself_) and gentle, but he tried anyways, because there was no other way for them to be proud of him. For a moment, Kohaku wanted to be back then, when Sango's attention was only on him and slaying demons, back before she met Miroku, back before everything went wrong. Because back then was always _before_, and before held the pain of solitude, even when Sango was trapped there with him. But solitude in misery certainly had to be better than solitude in _hatred_, which was all he could feel these days, even if he didn't want to.

Sighing, Kohaku released the blanket and ran his fingers across his chest. The bandages were soft, but he could feel the greasy ointment through them, ointment that had been made ages ago by a girl who wasn't really supposed to be there (_because she was never supposed to exist anymore, just like he wasn't, but the half-life was always better than the half-death that he always felt_). It smeared against his fingers and he rubbed them together, staring intently because what made everything so much better than he was?

Kohaku hated the bitter thoughts almost as much as he hated the hate, but he felt it because there was nothing else to do. How was he supposed to remain happy, knowing what he knew?

Sighing loudly, he drew his blankets around his shoulders, knowing that Sango would be angry if he didn't keep warm. Miroku would tell her, that much was for certain (_Miroku was telling her everything and him always nothing, and that hurt, too_) and he wasn't much up for the stilted conversation that it would bring about.

Kohaku moved slowly, careful not to tear his wounds and stood, pale, scarred fingers gripping the blanket closed around him. The wood was rough against his bare feet, but he dealt with it anyways, not bothering with footwear as he moved the reeds out of his way with one, shaking hand. It was so cold outside, even if the sun was slowly rising, and he stepped into the dirt, shivering at the chill that assaulted him. His chest ached with pain, but he continued on anyways, away from that stupid hut with its stupid memories, and towards the fields (_people didn't even notice him, the invisible, non-existent boy that he was, and maybe that was why he couldn't remember ever existing the way he was supposed to, maybe that was why Sango always preferred something that wasn't him, even when he _didn't.)

His blanket was supposed to protect him from the chill, but it didn't, and Kohaku found that he liked it.

It helped to ease the emptiness, if only for a little bit.

Sango had left him.

* * *

Miroku found him, sometime later, leaning against a tree and staring out at nothing.

Kohaku had shed his bandages and running his fingers along the tender, half-healed flesh without really noticing that he was doing it. With each motion, his fingers were digging deeper and deeper, drawing blood that didn't bleed, merely _existed_, and Kohaku wondered why Miroku came. His blanket was filthy and soiled, pooled around his naked torso (_his yukata was torn and shredded and covered in mud and blood, and somehow, he knew that Sango would be mad about _that, too), but Miroku didn't so much as blink.

Kohaku wondered why his nightmares never frightened the older man, and he winced as he pulled his hands away from his chest, frowning as they came back red.

That was wrong, really.

"Kohaku," Miroku said gently, shedding his outer robe in the process. "Perhaps you would like to accompany me back to the hut?"

Kohaku shook his head and rubbed his fingers against his thigh, frowning as they remained red. (_So wrong, on so many levels, but he couldn't quite figure out why._) He didn't realize he was doing it again, rubbing his fingers along his chest, dipping them in the stagnant blood, but he did it anyways, and Miroku eyes darkened into something he couldn't see, because he was too busy watching his fingers (_the fingers that were red, not yellow, and he could see the scars on his hands splitting open and bleeding red, too_) waiting for it to change.

"Kohaku," Miroku started again, but this time his voice was heavier and Kohaku noticed because he was rubbing his fingers back on his thigh (_red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red, red, RED—so wrong, not right, it could never be right_) and turning towards the monk, the familiar mask slipping back into place.

It was his fault, naturally.

(_The past always speaks for itself, after all_.)

"What do you want?" Kohaku asked all petulance and immaturity.

Miroku merely watched him, the smile that Kohaku hated so much but expected refusing to surface and somehow, Kohaku felt spurned. It didn't make much sense, and neither did the darkness that was suddenly in the other man's eyes at his question. Kohaku had to fight the urge to take his teeth between his lip and chew it until it became raw and opted for clenching his fists instead. His scars pulled (_pink against tan against white against red_) and Kohaku turned his attention back to his hands, back to the disgusting feeling of blood and greasy ointment, and he felt wrong. Everything was so wrong, so different, so something that it was never supposed to be and it was all Miroku's _fault_—

The robe obscured Kohaku's vision for a moment before he was yanking it off and turning angry eyes towards the older man.

But Miroku had left him alone (_angry solitude_) like always, and Kohaku could feel his face burning in humiliation.

He really, really hated him.

* * *

Sango dreamt of monsters and lovers and boys who were sick and not really alive and—

_Kohaku._

Screaming. Crying. _Dying._

She hated it.

But the youkai was taunting her again, just like always. It fed off her anger, off her fear, and it loved it, just as much as it loved her nightmares. And even though she had fought against it with everything she had, it still wasn't _enough._

Kohaku was dying.

Dying, dying, _dying._

But he wasn't dead. Couldn't be.

Miroku would never allow it.

He loved him, after all.

Even though Kohaku didn't. Even though he wouldn't. Even though—

_He'll die._

Kohaku bled rivulets of red.

Sango screamed.

* * *

Kohaku woke up outside, aching and hungry.

The half-thoughts were there, plaguing him as he sat completely still under the uncomfortable tree, the chill settled permanently against his bones. They twisted and molded into something he couldn't comprehend, something that was working at his brain, telling him that _something_ was wrong, but the half-thoughts never sat still long enough for him to understand.

The air was still cold and saturated with mist, the grass wet with dew and uncomfortable against his skin. The robe he had draped around his body was warm, but not warm enough (_nothing was ever warm enough, not with that disgusting aching numbness that always assailed him, leaving him weak and hollow_). His knees throbbed as he shifted, trying to bend them, and the cry was on his lips before he even realized he had a voice, and suddenly, everything was there and _real_, and the half-thoughts that were more than half-thoughts were suddenly _whole_ and—

_Miroku left me_, Kohaku thought deliriously, tears springing to his eyes as he bent his elbows and rolled his shoulders. _He left me just like she left me, even though he knew it would hurt. Like he didn't care._

_Because he doesn't, _the half-thought turned whole answered mockingly, causing more tears to spill down his cold cheeks. They were warm against his skin, almost _scalding_, but Kohaku ignored it, shifting forward slightly and hating the pain. His chest tightened slightly; the skin around his unwrapped wound tore slightly (_the blood was scalding too, and it was too hard holding in his scream, too hard pretending that his scream didn't exist because there was nothing but painpainpain and no one was there to take it away, not even Sango._)

Tears were streaming down his face.

His knees cracked as he stumbled to his feet, his toes frozen beyond measure. He needed something warm, something hot. Kohaku needed to feel the painful prick of heat against his cold skin, needed to feel _something_ that told him that he was no longer half-dead, because half-dead people were never supposed to feel what he was feeling (_but he couldn't exist yet, never yet_) but he felt it anyways.

He wanted to laugh at the irony, and it took everything in his power to take a step.

The grass was almost hot against his cold feet, but he ignored the aching feeling, his limbs trembling as his world tilted with each step he took. The bile was already thick in his poor, dry little throat, burning, but he ignored that, too, because he needed to get back to the hut, back towards his bed roll. Back to something that would keep him safe. (_Back to the before._)

It took too long, even with the increasing wrongness of everything, and by the time he managed to get somewhere between the fields and the forest, his instincts were shouting at him to run and hide and do _something, _and—

_nothing was never there, not when he needed it most_

—the pain exploded somewhere in the back of his mind, and suddenly, there was nothing.

(_Kohaku could remember nothing, better than anyone._)

* * *

Her mind was numb. Her chest ached. Her fingers hurt.

But the youkai was there, hovering just beyond her senses, and if Sango reached out far enough, hard enough, she could touch him. Could feel his twisted skin against her scarred fingers, could feel the hate urging her to wrap her hands around his slender neck and just _push_ against his windpipe, making it impossible to breathe.

She had never scented death so strong, wished for it so blindly—_Naraku—_but revenge was something she was used to, something she used to live for. It didn't matter that his words left her reeling, because she knew it was right. She had seen Kohaku's yellow eyes, had noticed the way his voice rasped and his fever refused to abate, and the fear was constantly tugging at her. Threatening her. Hurting her.

Kohaku's blood stained yellow.

(_It was wrong._)

She loved him anyways.

* * *

He wasn't sure how or why it had happened, but he woke again, half-naked in the rice fields, the water freezing his body and his blood soaking through Miroku's clothes.

The pre-dawn hurt his eyes, but somehow, he managed to open his mouth, managed to make a helpless, pitiful sound before the pain nearly erupted behind his eyes once again. The dark, star spackled sky blurred (_white becoming black and black becoming white until there was nothing but gray_), and tears were already streaming down his face as the cold and agony intensified.

Pain wasn't even an issue as he turned on his side and vomited up nothing but bile. He was so hungry; his stomach was ached badly. Every limb was as heavy as ice, and he couldn't feel them anymore. Numbness wasn't supposed to burn, but it did, and even as Kohaku spat the after taste of the vomit off of his tongue, it still lingered. Breathing was the hardest part though, because no matter how much he shifted, it still felt as though something was crushing his lungs. When he finally thought too look down at his chest, he could see something disgusting and yellow oozing sluggishly, turning his blood a strange orange color that excited him and frightened him all at once.

Kohaku wasn't sure how he reached the hut before dawn. He was certain that he had passed out a couple of times along the way.

The hut was just as cold as it was outside, and the reeds seemed to stick to his frozen fingers, even when he didn't want them to. He pushed them aside quietly, stumbling almost noiselessly into the hut, his bare feet aching each time he pressed them against the hard wood. The fire pit was bare, and there was nothing remaining of whatever dinner Miroku would have thought to make, but it didn't matter. He needed warmth, _yearned_ for it, and even though he wasn't sure where to get it, he knew that he had to do something.

The soaked, too-big robe was the first to go.

Kohaku felt vulnerable as he stood there, naked and wet and bleeding, so he moved through the rooms, to the storage, his fingers barely able to grasp the cloths that he dragged out of the dusty wooden crate. He wiped the first yukata across his chest, wincing as his skin pulled, but the pus was gone, and there was only blood, seeping sluggishly through his half-healed wound. Kohaku tore the sleeves from the second yukata and wrapped it around his torso, tying the bandage off at the front. The pressure was unpleasant but necessary—he needed to stop the bleeding, didn't _want_ to bleed anymore, and that was the only way he knew how. Giving out a harsh, ragged breath as the pressure increased on his chest, Kohaku reached into the crate and pulled out the third yukata, pulling it over his tense, aching shoulders and tying it around his waist.

The fabric was almost as cold as his skin, but he got used to it. He _had_ to get used to it because there was no other warmth that he could find, only his own, and even though he felt closer to the half-death and the nonexistence that he really was, he knew he could find it.

He staggered through the rooms, into his own, and lowered himself into the freezing, cold cloths, wishing that the nights were never so cold and that there would be heat once again. He didn't understand how something could be so bright and warm by day and disappear by night, but it was his fault (_Miroku's, too, because he left him when he needed him the most, and even that left him cold and hollow._) Kohaku wasn't even sure how he had slept through the entire day, anyways.

Groaning, Kohaku turned on his side, trying to be comfortable, but the cold made sleep almost impossible. His limbs continued to ache no matter how hard he tried, and the heat was elusive (_so cold, too cold, he needed more_). He wondered how Miroku ever managed to make it through the night without a second thought, wondered why he never thought to ask, and suddenly—

_heat and sweat and slick and moist and Kohaku thought he understood, but he never would, not the way she wanted him to_

—his chest was aching and his eyes were watering, but he pushed himself up, fighting off the shame.

He was vomiting bile into his bed mat before he even realized he had made it to his knees, but another push and he was on his feet, his arm pressed tightly against his twisting stomach, even as he spat the disgusting after taste into the shadows.

Miroku continued to sleep in his bed roll as Kohaku fell to his knees beside him.

The monk never shifted, never gave any indication of being awake, and for one delirious moment, Kohaku thought of how wonderful it would be for the monk to be suffering the way he was, _too_, but Miroku's skin was warm to the touch. The humiliation and shame that came with being found curled around the older man was enough to make Kohaku want to turn around and back away, but—

_hot searing sweaty wet, feels good always good and he wanted it to disappear in his anger and hate but it never did not with them never_

—he was lifting the blankets carefully around Miroku, curling himself against the too hot body that seemed to exude warmth, but it wasn't enough. Slowly and quietly, Kohaku untied the binding of his yukata, pressing closer, trying to feel the warmth against his chest but it wasn't working. The heat pervaded him, and it was only then that he realized he was untying Miroku's yukata, not noticing when the older man shifted, his eyes fluttering open. He pressed his skin against Miroku's, tears leaking from his eyes as the heat pressed against his cold, freezing skin, and his limbs ached as the warmth seemed to seep away from the older man, even as Miroku's breathing halted and his body seemed to go still.

(_Not enough, never enough._)

But Kohaku wrapped his legs around Miroku's and pressed his face into the man's collar bone, sobbing as his body refused to heat, ice against fire, and the tears did nothing to help, either.

He didn't sleep, not once, but oblivion was overrated anyways.

The angry solitude was more than enough.

* * *

The chill didn't disappear for three more days, and neither did the infection.

Miroku didn't say a word, even as he cleaned and bandaged his wound every morning and every night. The ointment always stung, leaving its disgusting grease trail across his inflamed skin, and it was everything Kohaku could do not to turn his head away from Miroku in shame. But even though the humiliation was bright and bitter during the day, he couldn't help but go back at night and curl around the too hot body that never shifted whenever he was there. He tried staying warm in just the yukata and his blankets, but it never worked. The ice seemed to settle deeper every time he tried. The stumble towards Sango and Miroku's room was filled with self-pity and hate, but as he curled against the older mans chest, trying to steal the warmth it always evaporated into nothingness. But each night the heat through the yukata was never enough, so he untied his, untied Miroku's, and he never really noticed that the man was awake until he felt Miroku's breath hitch at the sudden icy contact.

Kohaku cried again, but silently, and he buried his face into Miroku's collar bone.

His toes were the hardest to warm, and he always found himself pressing them back against Miroku's calves, wincing at the heat they gave off, but loving it nonetheless. His hands were just as hard, but he always folded them against Miroku's side, the monk's arms pressing down against them every time he did so. Miroku's chest and back were the warmest, even through his bandages, so he curled against that, too, and when his feet felt warm enough, he always curled his legs around the monks, finding the heavy press of Miroku's thighs against his thinner legs comforting.

He slept the second night, and the third, but somehow, he always woke up alone. He could never understand why that hurt so much.

(_The non-existent half-death was never supposed to be so warm._)

The day of the fourth night, Kohaku stumbled out of Miroku's room, sloppily tying his yukata together. Miroku was sitting at the fire pit, staring into nothing, but Kohaku found he didn't care. He was mortified again, and it tasted bitter, but when Miroku motioned for him to sit closer to the fire pit, Kohaku did so without another word.

He didn't understand why Miroku was being so charitable.

"Let me see your bandages," Miroku said simply, and Kohaku was already peeling down the upper half of his flimsy sleeping robe without a second thought. Miroku cleaned his wounds with a precision that Kohaku hadn't thought possible, and when he started to apply the ointment, Kohaku fidgeted, hating the greasy feel that came with it.

"Your infection's almost gone," Miroku answered as he began to wrap clean cloth bandages around Kohaku's torso. "Sango will—"

Kohaku jerked, his hands lifting to push the older man away from him, and he couldn't understand why.

"Don't _touch_ me," Kohaku hissed, shaking his head. The stillness was almost painful, but after a moment's hesitation, Miroku was gathering up the rest of the healing supplies and placed them in a little wooden crate, leaving Kohaku sitting there, half-bandaged and half-naked.

(_because everything was always done in halves, by both of them, and he was hating it more and more)_

Breakfast was strained, but Kohaku continued to eat his stale tasting rice diligently (_it was never stale, not when Sango made it, and that just made everything worse all the more_), never wincing as he drank the too salty miso that was placed in front of him. Afterwards, Miroku gathered up the empty tray, and Kohaku moved to the porch, staring out at the bright day. His blankets were pooled around him once again, adding to the heat that he was never supposed to feel, but as he sat there, he realized that it wasn't the same as Miroku's. (_Could never be_.)

It was no wonder that Sango loved it so much. Nothing could ever compare to the heat of the older man. But then, Sango had to have been warm, too, because Kohaku could remember the nights he woke up from his nightmares, nestled closely in his sister's arms as she wiped away his tears, and everything was too hot (_but never not_). The warmth couldn't have been her own, because whenever Kohaku was with her, all he felt was the horrible chill of not having her.

Sighing, Kohaku rolled his shoulders and continued staring out at the village, unable to smile even as some of the villagers stopped by to inquire about his well being.

"Do you know when you'll be well enough to go back out and slay demons?" one little girl asked, leaning heavily on Kohaku's knee.

"No," he murmured, shifting so she was no longer touching him. "I don't think I'll ever go back to hunting demons."

"That's horrible! Sango-san will—" But Kohaku was already jerking away from her too, and he was closing the reeds behind him, his eyes dark as he took in Miroku's reclining form. The fire pit wasn't lit, but Miroku sat there anyways, watching him carefully.

"_What?_" Kohaku snapped, holding his blanket tighter around his shoulders. Miroku lifted a shoulder in answer and turned away from him, opting to stare at the wall instead, but Kohaku had a feeling that there was something that the older man needed to say. He didn't particularly want to hear it, but anything had to be better than the uncomfortable silence. Kohaku leaned his weight on one foot, and he began to pick at one of the loose threads of his blanket unsure of whether or not he should talk to the older man.

Miroku made the decision for him. "I believe I underestimated what she means to me."

It was such a weird statement, and although Kohaku knew who Miroku was talking about, he didn't really _know_, so he turned his gaze towards the floor, hoping that the older man would elaborate.

He didn't.

But as they stood there in silence, Kohaku could see the way Miroku drummed his fingers on the ground, fidgeting uncomfortably. It was like the itch was there, but not. Subtly restrained, but begging to be released. He wished he could walk up to the older man and just snap his fingers in half, wondering why Miroku would feel the need _now_, of all times, to hold and touch a woman, but Kohaku didn't say a word. It was one of those things he didn't understand (_like everything black and green and void in Miroku_ _but he didn't really want to anyways_), probably couldn't understand no matter how hard he tried to. It would be good, though, to see the older man's resolve breaking. To see it shatter right before his eyes. And although it would probably hurt Sango, Sango had always deserved _so much better_ than what Miroku could give, and Kohaku couldn't wait for him to give in to that weakness.

Kohaku hoped for it.

"You're a monk," Kohaku replied quietly, shifting his blanket around his shoulders. "Celibacy and self-discipline shouldn't be a problem."

Miroku's dark eyes moved to him then, and Kohaku had never felt more uncomfortable. Miroku's unfathomable eyes seemed to peer into the very recesses of the young boys soul, seemed to find every blemish and stain that resided within him—it ached, standing there, watching the older man watch him, and already, Kohaku could feel his hackles raising. Could already feel the anger that shouldn't have been his creeping forward at a steady rate. One that threatened to consume him.

"Perhaps you are right," Miroku responded, still watching Kohaku carefully. Kohaku's lips twisted down into a frown. "One would think however, that you would be more inclined to think of Sango's happiness rather than your own."

It happened faster than he had anticipated, but Kohaku could feel his arms straining as they gripped Miroku's robes, could feel the weight dragging him down, and the dull throbbing of his chest was almost _deadening. _The anger faded almost as quickly as it came, but his fingers remained locked as Miroku's lips twitched.

"Kohaku—"

"Shut up," Kohaku breathed, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He could feel them stinging, could feel the pain threatening to knock him back, but still, his ugly scarred hands continued to clench Miroku's robe.

It was agonizing.

"Kohaku."

"I said _shut up!_" The tears were already leaking out of his eyes, and gods how weak he felt, how disgusting and horrible and losing was never supposed to feel so bad. Miroku's hands were warm against his as he uncurled Kohaku's fingers, and before Miroku even had a chance to grasp them in his own, Kohaku jerked away and stumbled back. His chest throbbed once again, painful and aching, and for the life of him, he couldn't understand where this anger was _coming from_, because Miroku was right, Miroku was _always right_ and he _always won._

Kohaku choked back the bitterness and bent forward, trying his hardest to ignore the pain in his chest. He wanted to be numb. Wanted to forget.

Miroku had been right. Miroku had won.

But the agony of abandonment was already there, and it was so clear, so disgustingly _clear_ that Kohaku almost vomited at the mere thought of it. It made so much sense, his half-existence, because half of what made him exist no longer belonged to him and _he wanted it back._ But he couldn't have it, not when it belonged to someone else, and even as Miroku shifted to walk towards him, Kohaku was already moving towards the reeds, moving to push them away, and—

"They will see you."

The certainty in the older man's voice made Kohaku want to scream, but he was just getting closer, annoyingly so. The sorrow was dueling with the anger so pleasantly, Kohaku wasn't sure what to feel.

But he didn't want Miroku to touch him. Not now. Not ever.

Miroku reached out a hand to grip his shoulder, and Kohaku lifted his eyes.

"I _hate_ you."

Miroku paused.

Then he pulled his hand back and sent it a little glance, as though he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do with it anyways. But Kohaku couldn't care less. He didn't care about anything, not when the pain was wrenching his heart so bitterly, not when the pressure was building on his chest, making it harder and harder to breathe.

Nothing was said as the tears continued to sting Kohaku's eyes, but the two continued to stare at one another. Miroku's eyes were blank, so empty, so fathomless, and it pained Kohaku to look at him. But hate was always so much stronger than nothingness, and Kohaku was used to nothingness, used to the secrets that it held. He knew it better than Miroku, had perfected it so much sooner, and yet it refused to give him solitude, refused to fall upon him and burn his blood. He wanted the cold darkness so much, wanted the aching numbness, but poison refused to spill from Miroku's lips—no, the older man just watched him, watched him with eyes that ached and hurt and _damn it_, Kohaku had never hated anyone as much as he Miroku. Not even when the marionette strings pulled tightly and threatened to snap, just so he could taste that agonizing reality.

"You don't…you don't _deserve_ _her_," Kohaku said after a long moment.

Miroku's face remained blank, and then, almost as if he doubted the truth of the statement, his lips curved up into a curious smile.

The strings frayed. Unraveled.

_Snapped_.

Miroku was the first to notice it.

Kohaku's bandages were red.


	2. Delirium

**Title: **Pretext

**Summary: **Because everybody needs one.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Inuyasha.

**Author's Note:** So yeah, I know I originally said that this would be two chapters, but I lied. It will be three. Yayness. Also, sorry for how long it took this chapter to get out; there are absolutely no excuses for that.

**Warnings:** Same, except, you know, more gore.

* * *

_It made so much sense, his half-existence, because half of what made him exist no longer belonged to him and __**he wanted it back.**_

_But he couldn't have it, not when it belonged to someone else and—_

—_nothing was never warm enough, not with his—_

—_scream that didn't exist, because there was nothing but—_

—_the non-existent half death that was never supposed to be—_

—_enough._

_The strings frayed._

_Unraveled._

_(He'll die.)_

_Miroku was—_

—_never right, was—_

—_something he was never made for—_

—_but submitted to, regardless, because—_

—_he had—_

—_forgotten—_

—_Sango._

_Again._

_(Snapped.)_

Miroku was the first to notice.

* * *

Sickness never tasted so sublime.

He could feel it coursing through his veins, flittering on the edge of his consciousness, and it was such a thrill, such a horrifying, intoxicating _thrill_ that he held onto it's last vestiges, even as he drifted off into a restless sleep. It infringed on everything he was (_there was never much_), ate at him constantly, and already, Miroku was tired.

Kohaku loved it.

* * *

The sun rose and burned brightly in the sky, wouldn't stop, and Sango could feel sweat sticking to her back, moistening her hair. Her lips quivered as she held her boomerang, poised and ready to throw at any sign of attack, but the youkai remained at the edge of her vision. Lingering. Waiting.

Taunting.

"He'll die," it whispered.

She slung the boomerang through the air, hissing through her teeth the moment the youkai flashed out of her line of sight. Twigs cracked beneath her feet as she dodged to the side, her hand reaching up and snagging her returning boomerang out of the air. Kirara tensed her thick muscles, growling threateningly in her throat—the hot wave of pure _energy_ lashed out at Sango's back, and before she could even think twice about it—_never did, not that she could remember—_the clash of metal against metal grated in her ears as pain—_hot, agonizing, indescribable—_shot up her arm and rattled her bones.

The youkai grinned, sharp yellow teeth bared in dark humor before spinning away, its fist connecting with the flat of Sango's blade and sending it flying—it imbedded itself into the trunk of a tree, and Sango glowered, immediately countering the youkais next move with the block of her boomerang.

Kirara lunged forward, teeth bared—

"Die, die, _die_," the youkai sang, claws digging into bright yellow fur and staining it crimson. "Before you know it, he'll be nothing more than a memory."

Kirara yowled as the claws dug deeper—Sango called out to her in terror, but the fire-cat twisted her head, snapping her jaws down onto open air. The youkai was moving again; twigs cracked beneath his feet as the rustle of unsettled leaves permeated the air. Sango lifted her boomerang with one hand, poised and ready on the tips of her toes—her burgundy eyes darted back and forth across the dense terrain, cataloguing each movement the youkai made, from the trees to the ground and then back again. Its lips were still curved condescendingly, its yellow teeth bared in a facsimile of danger, and Sango felt the spike of youki before it landed—

Sickening, thick poison shot from the youkai like a poison-tipped arrow, aimed directly at the taijiya. A quick flash of surprise had Sango moving; she pivoted on her foot instinctively and dove to the side, the crackling scent of disintegrating demon bone made her nose burn.

Kirara darted after her master, bloodied and in pain, but there was no way she would leave Sango to fight the vicious monster alone. Sango saw the youkai drop from the branches, and she turned, blocking his violent strike with her boomerang—the force rattled her teeth painfully, and Sango parried with a quick thrust. The youkai smiled again, jumping back, and Sango's hand gripped the hilt of her katana before pulling it cleanly from the trunk of the tree.

The youkai moved, fluttering about quick as lightening, but Sango followed the movement with her eyes. Years of training—_training that made her stronger and faster and better, and perhaps that was the problem, because Kohaku never was—_had her tense and waiting, patient like she had never been patient before. Not where the youkai was concerned. Not for the youkai that had poisoned and hurt and nearly _destroyed_ her brother

(_even if he had been destroyed long ago)_

and the grip on her katana shifted, sweat slicking her hand wet as the hatred coalesced, descending upon her like a wave of thick, unrelenting miasma. Her eyes narrowed and she watched the creature dance forward, only to dance back, its eyes flickering from brown to red to brown again and she couldn't remember why it bothered her so.

(_Shouldn't have to.)_

"I'm going to kill you," Sango said, Kirara poised beside her, fangs bared. "I'll make you pay."

"He'll die," the youkai said.

Sango didn't hesitate. She released her boomerang.

The youkai's lips curled into a condescending smile, and with a quiet laugh, he launched himself back up into the trees, whips of poison shooting out towards Sango. Sango dodged, sliding her mask into place—and Kirara sprang forward, teeth bared in animalistic fury, ready to tear the threat limb from limb—

Poison tipped claws dug into Kirara's flank, and she yowled once again. She thrashed in his hold, her red eyes tinged purple, and without a second thought, Sango ran forward, catching her boomerang and striking out with her katana, cringing at the screeching sound of metal on metal. Her teeth rattled once again, just like before, and the youkai released Kirara, flicking thick drops of red blood towards Sango—

_(Yellow.)_

Kirara twisted in her pain, and like magic, her teeth clamped down around the youkai's lower thigh and _poisondeathdelirium _ripped through Sango's mind, causing her to scream in terror as her heart trembled and her head ached and—

_(Not dead.)_

The youkai's poison slapped against Kirara, melting fur and flesh, and then it was running, leaving a thick trail of strange, acrid blood in its wake.

Sango's lips twisted, and a scream of pure _ragehatefailure_ ripped out of her throat and into the open air, just as the pain scorched paths of destruction through her mind. The scars of her heart weren't unnoticeable, but she had to ignore them, even as the tears sprung to her eyes and she darted over to Kirara, watching as the injured fire cat lay on her side, breathing heavy, labored breaths of agony.

Sango trailed her hand over Kirara's festering, bloodied wound.

Her fingers came away yellow.

* * *

"_You hurt yourself again, didn't you?"_

_The question was kind, concerned, but the boy couldn't stop the cringe of shame that had him hiding his bloodied hand in the folds of his clothes. A soft sigh erupted into the air around him, and he glanced up slowly, his lip worried between his teeth._

_She was sitting in a patch of warm sun, a small yellow cat curled up in the middle of her lap. She had been gazing out at nothing as he approached, simply watching the soft sway of the wind through the trees. Her burgundy eyes were staring at him, bright and gentle in their intensity, and the shame coalesced like a violent storm behind his breaking, shattering face. Half-thoughts whirled around in his head, but the stinging pain of failure brought him back to the present, to the there and now, and he watched with barely contained humiliation as she picked the yellow cat up and set her aside._

"_Come here."_

_He hesitated then shuffled forward, extending his bloodied hand outward—the wet wound gleamed nastily in the sunlight, and she let out another sigh, shaking her head slightly._

"_What am I going to do with you?" Her gently probing fingers dropped his hand and she stood, smoothing down the front of her kimono. "Well, come on; let's go get it cleaned up."_

_She curled her fingers around his elbow in a gentle grip, a soft, unassuming smile on her face as she led him towards the house—they stepped up onto the porch, slipping out of their shoes before she slid open the shoji screen, leading him into the warm sparsely furnished room. _

"_Wait here, I'm just going to get some herbs and bandages."_

_Her warm hand released him, and she disappeared into the hallway. He waited, poised on his toes, the shame and humiliation still coursing behind his rapidly disintegrating mask. He fought to keep all the pieces stuck together, but they broke into dust the moment he reached out for them, ready to slip them back into place. _

_The ever constant hum of silence echoed around in his head as he waited, and his fingers stroked the curve of the kusarigama at his hip. Dull metal pressed against his finger, and he sighed quietly, wishing he had been just a little more skilled, just a little better, just a little _quicker_—_

"_**You never will be."**_

_His mask crumpled into a heap at his feet, and the chaotic thoughts of his mind churned in a gyre of violent broken screams. His heart rate accelerated and he could smell the acidic scent of decay. His eyes widened, and just like the shame and humiliation, fear churned like a violent squall, only this time, it wasn't hidden, but __**there**__ and he turned on his heel and darted towards the hallway, desperate to find her, to see her, to __**know**__ her—_

_**I can't remember.**_

_He stepped onto a field._

_A field of broken, sparkling glass stretched out before him, and the bright sun that beat down on his skin only moments before was dimmed by the purple haze of the clouds. The scent burned his nostrils and he rubbed his nose, uncertain and afraid of what he was supposed to do next. A curling mist pushed at him, urging him forward, but a tiny fragment of glass already cut into his littlest toe, drawing blood._

"_I don't want to," he whispered, staring at the field in horror._

_A dark, mocking chuckle filled the silence._ _**"You don't have a choice."**_

_**Then tell me why you chose her.**_

"_What would you have me say?"_

_He twirled around, his eyes wide and his heart nearly exploding out of his chest. The man—__**he only half-exists, after all**__—was watching him with dark eyes, a strangely ambiguous smile curling his lips. He couldn't read the man, not the way he wanted to, and he felt the vicious shard of his mask wedge itself into his skin, drawing deeper and deeper within him—_

—_**Hatehimloathehimdestroyhim—**_

_The man tilted his head in curiosity, the smile still hovering about his lips as he stepped forward, reaching a cloth covered hand out to grip his elbow. The heat was scorching—__**so hot against his freezing, aching body, but it wasn't enough, never enough—**_

_(_again)

—_and he nearly jerked away from the man, nearly lifted his kusarigama and plunged it into the man's heart, but the man was so hot, so scorching, and he felt the pieces of his mask slamming back into his face, piece after piece after piece and it ached._

"_Who are you?" he asked the man quietly, and the man reached forward to grip the boy's other elbow._

"_Who do you want me to be?" He stared at the man blankly, hardly noticing when the thin strands of cobwebs began floating down from the sky, catching in his bangs._

"_I want—"_

"_Me," the man interrupted, pulling him forward. The boy's eyes widened._

"_What?"_

"_You asked who I was. I am me." The lips curled into another unreadable smile. "Would you follow me, Kohaku?"_

_Kohaku's heart beat violently against his ribcage._

_**I don't know. I can't remember.**_

"_No," Kohaku whispered instead, gazing out at the sparkling field of broken glass._

"_Hm," the man hummed, the smile not breaking. "I think you're lying."_

_**But why?**_

_Kohaku's throat was dry, and he tried to swallow past the lump, but it stuck fastidiously, just like the broken fragments of his mask. He could feel them worming their way back down towards his heart, and little bursts of heat had him jumping, wanting to pull away from the man that was too hot—__**always too hot, even if it was never enough—**__but the grip was too firm, too strong—_

(just a little bit more_)_

"_There are threads in your hair," the man said, releasing an elbow to smooth down the wayward locks. Kohaku watched as he plucked at a thread—it was white and sticky, like a cobweb, but it fluttered out of the man's hand and towards the ground, only to stick to Kohaku's bare feet. Kohaku frowned, shook his foot, but then the man's fingers were threading through his hair in a comforting massage, and Kohaku's eyes drifted shut, even as the man smiled in soft amusement._

"_I think you would."_

"_Would what?" The gentle motion hadn't stopped, even if it was too hot._

"_Follow me."_

_The words jolted Kohaku from his reverie, and he snapped his gaze to the man's, holding it for all he was worth. The man's hands hadn't stopped their comforting motion, but his gaze was dark, intense, and Kohaku could see the itch in the man's fingers, knew that it was so very familiar, knew he had seen it somewhere before—_

_(_but couldn't remember)

_**Why can't I remember?**_

"_Because you're only half-there."_

_Kohaku's heart ached. "What?"_

"_Something's missing," the man replied, and Kohaku felt a strange, painful tug at the base of his neck. His eyes slammed shut and he released a shaky sigh then opened his eyes again. He didn't want the man to disappear—he was desperate for him, desperate for the familiarity, desperate for—_

(who?)

_The strings were curled around the man's fingers, and the man tugged on it, jerking Kohaku forward._

_**Like a puppet.**_

"_We should find it."_

"_Find what?"_

"_Whatever you're missing."_

_Kohaku stilled, his eyes sweeping over the field of glass and coiling poisons in terror._

"_You said you would follow me, Kohaku. Don't you remember?"_

_**No.**_

_The man smiled, and his hand was hot against Kohaku's elbow, even as the man's other hand tugged on the strings once again._

"_We have to find what's missing," the man said, his hand slipping hotly up Kohaku's arm. "Let's go."_

_Kohaku sighed shakily._

"_Okay," he whispered, stumbling forward, closer to the searing heat._

_The man stepped back, the glass crunching beneath his sandals, an absent smile curling his lips._

_Kohaku followed, crying as his feet were cut to ribbons._

_The glass was stained red._

* * *

A fleeting sense of urgency broke through the quiet calm Miroku had been feeling the moment Kohaku's mouth feel open in a silent, unbreakable scream. His eyes darkened, flickering to the body twisted up in a bedroll, and the first coherent thought—_(there hadn't been many)_—that Miroku felt had nothing to do with helping and everything to do with watching. He watched, silently, as Kohaku's smaller fingers twisted into the blankets, tears leaking in thick trails from his closed eyelids, liquid clinging to the lashes. He watched as Kohaku's back arched, looking as if he were about to break—_(already broken)_—and then, once the image had superimposed itself into his retinas in a guise of horror and helplessness, Miroku felt his mind jerk back into place. Back into reality.

The silence broke.

A shrill, vicious, heart-wrenching keen split the silence apart, tore it to shreds, and Miroku hissed quietly, immediately reaching forward to hold the screaming boy in his arms. There weren't many fever dreams, not this time, but the ones that did happen were never this bad. Miroku knew that whatever Kohaku was experiencing, whatever was tearing him apart from the inside out was dangerous and violent and vengeful—after all, what else would cause the half-existing boy to have such an excruciating reaction?

The veins in Kohaku's neck bulged against the underside of his skin; his cheeks flushed red, and his body which was once cool—_from hot to cold and back again—_was positively searing to the touch. The worry that threatened to overcome the monk was squashed down behind calm rationale, and he tucked Kohaku into his lap, cradling Kohaku's thrashing body against him with a firm grip.

With his free hand, he reached out and plucked the cool damp cloth out of the bowl and wiped the gathering sweat from Kohaku's brow, watching as the watery drips slipped down the curve of Kohaku's forehead, down the bridge of his nose and merged with the thick trails of tears. The tears didn't stop coming, Miroku could see that, but Kohaku let out a small gasp at the sudden change in temperature, and his eyes fluttered open, yellowed by the second fever.

"Kohaku," Miroku said, wiping the cool cloth over the flushed expanse of Kohaku's neck. "It's time to wake up."

"_Okay,_" came the cracked, broken reply.

Miroku smiled then, but there was no happiness in it. Happiness seemed to have fled the moment Kohaku's wounds burst completely open—everything had been exposed in that moment, everything had come crumbling down around the boy and suddenly—_(openfesteringoozing)_—Miroku thought he understood why Kohaku was always half-empty. Not entirely, of course, but with this understanding came something else, something Miroku didn't think he could readily identify, and what was worse was that it was within _himself._ Strange, that Miroku saw himself getting lost in the broken, fragmented person that was Kohaku. He had thought himself better than that.

Still, things made sense, things which hadn't before.

He thought he understood why Kohaku yearned for Sango so much, even though she was right before him. Heard the whispers break the silence of Kohaku's fever dreams, heard them ground out in infected words full of hate. Miroku listened and contemplated and wanted to ask, but the words got lodged in his throat just as Kohaku would turn those bitter, angry eyes in his directions and—_(curse him, bless him, just do both)_—ask another question lined with bitter derision. Or tell him he hated him. It hardly mattered. Miroku was used to both by now.

Miroku waited, silently, as Kohaku's glassy gaze slowly began to come into focus; he could tell the moment Kohaku was really there and not just speaking for the fever dream. He could tell because he had seen it so many times before, had seen the way Kohaku's body would tense as awareness slowly seeped into his brain, battering away the cobwebs of horror that enshrouded him. He could tell because he felt it—felt the tightening of muscles, see the way Kohaku's brow furrowed, the way his pupils would get slightly smaller as he stopped looking beyond what was in front of him and realize that there was something else there, something else worth noticing.

Kohaku expelled a little breath of pain, and his brown eyes shifted from the overhead rafters to Miroku—dark eyes drunk in the sight of a sick but alert Kohaku, watching as pale skin was tinged red in heat, as fingers curled into tight fists because Miroku was not who Kohaku wanted to see, not who Kohaku wanted to be there.

_(then who?)_

Miroku realized that the moment Kohaku's wounds burst open, the moment everything was revealed—_you don't deserve her—_(_a curse, definitely a curse)_—because the bandages went red. Blood soaked into them quickly and efficiently, and Miroku couldn't help but wonder. Kohaku's body had trembled, his eyes had fluttered, and the itch that had been bothering Miroku for days on end had suddenly dissipated the moment Kohaku's body slammed into the ground. Blood began to pool beneath him in an array of colors Miroku couldn't understand—_(again)_—but instead of watching, he reacted.

He reached forward and scooped Kohaku up, then got to work on patching him back up. Stopping the blood had been the hardest, but with the right amount of pressure and the proper herbs, it had been easy. His hands had been stained yellow for days afterwards, but the fever dreams kept him distracted, kept him on his toes. The wound had started to heal—(_superficial)_—but it hardly mattered because Kohaku _wasn't there._

_Just like Sango._

Fingers curled into the purple fabric of his robes, and Miroku's lips twitched up into a curious smile as Kohaku struggled to push himself away, to escape the _(not_) comfortable embrace that Miroku held him in.

Kohaku's arms were small, thin. Miroku wondered if Kohaku knew.

"Let go," Kohaku croaked, and Miroku released him, watching as Kohaku tumbled from his lap and into a heap on the floor.

"My apologies," Miroku replied as Kohaku glared him, his eyes yellow and his glare weakened by the fever. Miroku smiled pleasantly.

"…_hate you…_" Kohaku whispered, curling his arms around his middle.

"Kohaku—"

"Go _away_," Kohaku breathed, curling into a ball. Miroku watched, his eyes dark, as the fabric pulled against the narrow angle of Kohaku's shoulders, as Kohaku's knees peeked out from the slit in the front, as blood began to—

Miroku jolted forward with a start, and he gazed down at his fingers.

They were stained yellow.

"You're bleeding," Miroku said after a long silence. He paused, listening to Kohaku's slightly labored breathing, his gaze flickering between his yellowed fingers and the growing red stain on Kohaku's yukata.

Kohaku hissed angrily through his teeth.

"I don't _care_—"

"_Kohaku._"

Kohaku turned his head, his brown eyes glassy once again. His lip trembled, though whether it was in hate or terror, Miroku didn't know. He waited, and the tips of his fingers burned. Slowly, as though trudging through a swamp of molasses, Kohaku expelled a shaky breath, jerking his head down once.

That was all Miroku needed.

His hands curled around Kohaku's ankle and he tugged the boy towards him, his lips flattening out into a severe line. He shifted the yukata, ignoring Kohaku's hiss of discomfort, and watched as blood welled from the open wound on Kohaku's leg. He couldn't see what had caused it—_too much blood, always too much—_so he released Kohaku's ankle and stood, exiting the room without a word. He felt the burn of Kohaku's gaze on his back, so cold it left trails of agonizing blisters, but he ignored it, choosing to enter the main room of their home and pick up the box of herbs and bandages.

He re-entered the room and settled beside Kohaku, his eyes tracing the movement of Kohaku's blood as it ran down the surface of Kohaku's thigh, staining the white fabric of the yukata red. Miroku immediately started applying pressure to Kohaku's wound with a clean cloth, frowning slightly as Kohaku whimpered in pain. Kohaku's leg was sticky with blood, and Miroku knew he had to have been bleeding for a while—_a while, _Miroku's mind supplied, _but for how long? And how did he come to be injured in the first place?_

Miroku knew he would not find out until he managed to stop the bleeding, so he continued to push down on the wound that started two inches above Kohaku's knee, pulling the cloth away only to see the blood begin to well again. Miroku's eyes darkened at the implication, but he continued putting pressure on the wound anyways; herbs would make it better, but one look in Kohaku's direction let Miroku know that Kohaku's earlier words rang true—

_He didn't care._ Not at all. Not anymore.

At least not about himself.

The thought disturbed Miroku more than he thought was absolutely necessary. He didn't want to concentrate on the swirling pool of confusion that shot through him like a poison-tipped arrow, contaminating his blood and leaving his thoughts in a confused whirl. His thoughts had been chaotic enough, not even true thoughts, but half-thoughts, left over remnants of what he would have thought had he—

_(snapped)_

—allowed Sango to stay by his side instead of chasing the demon. The feeling resonated within him with such an intensity he was nearly cowed; Sango should have been here, not Miroku, not the person Kohaku hated more than _anything—_

The bleeding stopped.

"Your leg is covered in bite marks," Miroku stated, his voice heavy with disbelief. He turned a strangely incredulous gaze to Kohaku, watching as Kohaku's brown eyes darkened with something indescribable before flicking away.

"I don't care," he reiterated once again.

Miroku sighed, and a flash of exhaustion settled upon his bones, making him feel weary and worn out.

Kohaku was the first to notice it.

"How did you get it?" Miroku asked at length, smoothing a thick paste over the wound. Kohaku didn't answer, his eyes trained thoughtfully on the ceiling even though his every muscle was tensed in—well, Miroku didn't know, not really, and he wasn't going to ask. Instead, he focused on rubbing the paste over the inflamed skin, over the wounds that seemed to dip deep into Kohaku's leg, over the fleshy wound that could have only been made by some vicious, wild animal. Miroku hadn't noticed them before—Kohaku couldn't have _had_ them before, not since—

"I don't know," Kohaku answered, allowing his gaze to flick towards Miroku. "I don't—"

"—care," Miroku finished for him, the odd smile flittering about his lips once again. "It seems you have stopped caring about a lot of things."

"It's hard to care when there's nothing here worth caring about."

Miroku's fingers slipped, stabbing into the wound viciously. Kohaku's teeth clacked shut, and he tried his hardest to bite back the groan of pain, but Miroku heard it loud and clear, even as blood began to well once again. Not as bad as before, but it was bad enough, and Miroku couldn't stop the faint frown of discontent that marred his face. He dabbed at the bleeding wound once again, hardly noticing the tightening of Kohaku's fingers in his blanket, or the way his bare toes curled at the shockwaves of sharp pain. It took only a moment, but the wound stopped oozing and Miroku could finally wrap the bandages around Kohaku's leg.

Kohaku's hot skin looked an unhealthy pallor as the greasiness of the ointment coated his leg, but he didn't say a word, just glared darkly at Miroku as he tied off the bandage and gave Kohaku's knee a gentle little pat.

Kohaku jerked away, falling back into his sweat-soaked bed roll without a thought.

He curled up, hugging his knees to his chest, and his eyes fluttered shut. Miroku gathered the healing equipment up, pausing as he caught sight of yellow-stained fingers reaching for the bloody cloth, but Miroku pushed the errant terror away, wanting out of that room more than anything. Wanting away from the boy who felt nothing but hate and wanted nothing but—

(_Sango.)_

—solitude.

"Go away," Kohaku whispered at long last, and Miroku stood without another word.

It wasn't difficult, accepting the hate. Kohaku felt it in spades, regardless of the fact that Sango was constantly battling him over it, begging him to reconsider. It didn't matter, though. Kohaku was allowed to hate. Miroku would never begrudge him that.

Kohaku was still broken, after all.

_(There was nothing left to give.)_

* * *

The rough wood of the well warmed beneath her palm. Sango hadn't thought that she would ever return. The thought had been fleeting in her mind, but there was no point when there was no Kagome, and she couldn't help but wonder how Inuyasha felt. How he was doing. It was what brought her there in the first place, back to the spot where it all began—she could see the towering canopy of the Goshinboku, its presence like a calming, long forgotten memory (_one she hadn't forgotten, not really_) as it stood sentinel above the thick greenery of the forest.

It was a brash move, Sango knew. If she could, she would reconsider. But Kirara had been down for the count and even if Kaede was more than willing to look after and mend the broken fire-cat, Sango knew it wouldn't be enough. She could chase the demon for days on end and never catch it; she wanted to destroy the creature that had hurt her brother, that had taunted and taunted and taunted, but she wasn't _strong enough._

Her lips twisted slightly in bitter consternation. Not strong enough. Not fast enough.

_(Irony.)_

So she sought out the person that was, quite possibly, the strongest hanyou in existence, because there was nothing else to challenge that power, no one who was stupid enough to try.

A bitter sigh choked Sango for the briefest of moments, and then she was striding confidently into the forest, wondering if Inuyasha would even be there.

He didn't disappoint.

Sango spotted Inuyasha the moment the Goshinboku came into view. He was lounging back on a thick sturdy branch, his foot dangling limply beneath him. His other leg was pulled up, an arm propped up on his knee, and his head was pressed back against the giant trunk behind him, eyes closed in concentration. What he was concentrating on, Sango didn't know. But if she had to guess—

_(don't)_

"Hello Inuyasha."

The hanyou jerked forward, amber eyes snapping around to stare at her. His eyes were dark with confusion, but it quickly disappeared as his lips quirked into an annoyed scowl. Whatever he had been doing must've been important, because Sango couldn't remember the last time Inuyasha ever looked at her that way—_though he did, once upon a time, back when it was okay to remember—_and she allowed her lips to curl up into a placating, apologetic smile.

"What the hell do _you _want?"

Sango allowed her smile to dissipate into a severe, angry line, and Inuyasha hissed through his teeth, dropping to the ground below. His silver hair swayed in the light breeze, and his ears twitched back and forth as he listened into the silence, the words that Sango refused to say but expressed instead. His clawed hand descended towards the sword at his hip—Tessaiga, the legendary dog demon fang that could kill one hundred enemies in one stroke, that could rip them apart limb from limb until there was nothing left, the sword that was imbued with Inuyasha's superior power—

"Your help," Sango articulated at long last.

Inuyasha scoffed. "I already know that." His gaze flickered pointedly to her black and pink slaying garb.

Sango sighed and removed her boomerang from her shoulder to prop it up against the closest tree. She lifted a hand to massage the knot that had begun to form on her long trek there, watching as Inuyasha's eyes flickered back towards the Goshinboku, back to what he really wanted to be doing (_concentrate)_. Sango couldn't help the soft smile that curved her lips.

"Kirara was hurt," Sango started to explain. "She's in no condition to fight anymore and I need help."

Inuyasha's gaze narrowed in on her. "_Why?_"

Sango clenched her jaw tightly and looked away, the hatred flashing brutally in her eyes.

"It wants to kill Kohaku." She paused and looked at him again, sickened to see abject horror and surprise twisting Inuyasha's expression. "And I'm not strong enough to kill it, not on my own."

"You—keh—_idiot_—where the hell is that stupid monk?"

A burst of pain had Sango rubbing her chest, directly over her heart.

"Looking after Kohaku. Kohaku isn't in the best condition. He almost died."

_(Not dead.)_

_But he will be._

The whisper caught on the very edge of Sango's consciousness and she watched as Inuyasha suddenly whipped around, his eyes scanning the dense forest for any sign—but the flicker of awareness dimmed to near nothingness, and Sango knew that it was waiting, just out of reach, beyond what either of them were capable of and she turned to face Inuyasha once again. His brows were furrowed in concentration, his fangs digging into the flesh of his lower lip. Inuyasha was thinking, long and hard, about what to do next. Sango wondered if he noticed.

She certainly had.

Then, "Shouldn't you be with him instead?"

Sango's heart clinched in pain.

"I didn't know what else to do."

"_Keh,_" Inuyasha scoffed, folding his arms over his chest in annoyance. "Stupid humans never know…" his voice trailed off, and he stared at Sango intently, his eyes narrowing as the presence danced into range once again only to dance back out. The taunting whisper was caught on the fringes of Sango's mind, and Inuyasha let out a sharp hiss of annoyance, his liquid amber eyes still focused intently on Sango's.

_He'll die, _the voice whispered again, and Inuyasha snarled quietly.

"You _stupid_—" Inuyasha hissed, only to cut himself off abruptly. "_Fine," _he spat. "I'll help. I'll get rid of that damned youkai myself—"

"No," Sango snapped, shouldering her boomerang. "I said I wanted your help, I didn't say that I wanted you to kill it. That's for me and me alone."

Inuyasha eyed her silently before turning and jumping back up into the branches of the Goshinboku.

"Keh, whatever," he grumbled, leaning back. "We'll leave at dawn. Go take a bath or something. You smell like crap."

Sango scowled, offended, but turned to do as he said. There was no use arguing with Inuyasha, no use trying to get him to leave now as opposed to later. Besides, she was tired–days of non-stop traveling in an attempt to get some place to heal Kirara, days of nonstop battles with no definitive end—it was almost like she was back then, back to Naraku, and she could feel the weary heaviness of exhaustion settled into her bones. She didn't want to sleep, because she knew she would hear the voice, listen to it taunt her and wait for her to strike, only to know that she never would. Never _could._

It was too strong, too fast. She didn't even compare.

She stepped through the ring of trees surrounding the Goshinboku, barely noticing the whispered, "_Idiot_," that Inuyasha shot in her direction. Sango's eyes narrowed, her hand instinctively tightening around the strap of her boomerang.

She didn't care what Inuyasha had to say.

She was tired. So, so tired.

Sango wanted it to end.

* * *

_Strong fingers gripped the thick shard of glass, and with a painful spasm, the object was sliding out cleanly from between torn flesh, blood spilling in trails down the heel of Kohaku's foot, curling around his ankle and trickling down his calf. Kohaku winced, tears leaking from his eyes as he lay back down against the ground, his foot held aloft in the air. The man hovered near him silently, focused intently on the task before him—so broken, so destroyed his foot was, Kohaku didn't think he'd be able to recover. Each slid of glass from flesh hurt so much, so __**badly—**_

"_Don't cry, Kohaku," the man said, running his strong fingers over mutilated flesh. Kohaku's hands clenched into fists at the shockwave of pain. "It could have been worse. You could have died."_

_**I want to.**_

"_Do you?" the man chuckled pleasantly. "I don't think you do. Have you ever wanted to before?"_

_**I don't know. I can't remember.**_

"_Hmm," the man hummed, his dark eyes drinking in Kohaku's pain twisted expression. The same curious smile hovered about his lips, and Kohaku wanted to know whywhy__**why**__ the man's intense gaze didn't change, why his eyes didn't darken in worry or why the smile didn't break down into something more understandable, something that didn't hurt as much._

_The man's blood-stained fingers slipped down to Kohaku's ankle, lifted the foot higher, and his gaze shifted from Kohaku's tear-stained cheeks to the bloody mess in front of him. He prodded the skin, his brows raising slightly before he released it, setting it gently against the ground._

"_That's all of it," he replied, crouching down to tangle his fingers in Kohaku's threads once again. "Are you ready to go?"_

"_No," Kohaku breathed, outstretching his arms. The man smiled, his hands slipping under Kohaku's armpits and lifting him up. Kohaku pressed forward, struggling with the way the man kept him held at arm's length, hating the way his blood dripped from his dangling feet and spattered against the barren, dusty earth. The man's head tilted as he regarded Kohaku, eyes flickering up and down his skinny form, and then, like the puppet master he was, he tugged on the string and Kohaku went forward, arms wrapping around the strong, broad shoulders._

_The man's arms slipped under Kohaku's legs, and the pain at the base of Kohaku's neck flared instantly at the insistent tug. Kohaku winced, and like the good little marionette he was, he buried his face in the man's neck, hardly noticing the way the man seemed to cradle him like a child, just relishing in the ever-constant hum of the man's heart, knowing that he existed somewhere, even if he couldn't find it._

_**Never could.**_

"_It's still missing," the man replied, adjusting his grip so that one hand curled around Kohaku's shoulder and the other gripped him firmly right beneath the knees. His breath was hot against Kohaku's cheek—__**just like him**__—(_even if it was never enough)—_and Kohaku felt his eyes flutter shut at the burning heat that seemed to scorch skin, even through the thick fabric of their clothes._

_(_from hot to cold and back again)

"_What is?" Kohaku asked quietly._

"_The other half of your existence, of course. Didn't you know?"_

_**No. I don't remember knowing.**_

"_Who are you?" Kohaku whispered, pulling away slightly to stare. The man smiled ambiguously._

"_I am who you want me to be."_

_Kohaku frowned._

"_What's your name?"_

_The man laughed. "It is whatever you want it to be."_

_**But I know you.**_

"_You knew my name," Kohaku breathed, frustrated. "How—"_

"_Because you wanted me to."_

_The anger spiked unexpectedly, but before Kohaku could say anything, the man began walking, away from the field of bloodied glass and towards the towering mountain. A thick, pungent, purple haze clung around the mountainous peak like advection fog, and Kohaku sighed tiredly. His feet stung and throbbed in the aftermath of his violent journey, and the nearer they came to the mountain trail, the quicker Kohaku realized that this journey would be filled with as much excruciation as before. _

_He could see it in the slippery, jagged rocks, in the steep paths which had no purchase, in the way that the man would not be able carry him and ascend the mountainous path at the same time. Tears sprung to Kohaku's eyes once again, and he gave a watery sigh, turning his head to bury it in the man's neck once again._

_Fingers tightened pleasantly against his shoulder. The heat felt closer than ever._

"_I don't want it to hurt."_

_The man sighed softly._

"_Pain will exist, even if you don't want it to," he replied. "Just because you don't, doesn't mean that it won't, either."_

"_Just because I don't what?"_

"_Exist. Do you remember existing, Kohaku?"_

_**No. Not ever.**_

_**It hurts.**_

"_I don't remember a lot of things," he whispered._

"_You did, once upon a time."_

_Kohaku frowned, uncertain of whether the man was speaking of existing or remembering. He decided he didn't care._

"_You… you said that, if I wanted something, it would be there, right?"_

_The man chuckled softly, kicking a small pebble out of his path. The sound resonated in his chest, and Kohaku pressed closer, relishing in the vibration._

"_No. I said that I would be whatever you wanted."_

_Kohaku hummed quietly. "Does that mean I wanted you?"_

_The man stilled. His smile looked as if it had been carved out of stone._

_Kohaku waited._

"_Perhaps," the man said at last. "Though I think you would know the answer to that question better than anyone." The man tilted his head forward as he regarded Kohaku intently. His eyes were unnaturally dark. A shiver tickled its way up Kohaku's spine as he watched. "But in order to want me, you have to _remember _me." He paused. "Do you?"_

_**No. But I want to.**_

_(_more than anything_)_

_The man smiled. "I thought you would." His eyes flicked up and away from Kohaku. The man's fingers seemed to tighten against Kohaku's smaller shoulders once again. The fingers from his other hand—__**stained yellow, yellow, always yellow—**__pressed into the soft flesh of his thigh, prodding against a scar that Kohaku couldn't remember ever getting—(_but he never could remember, not when it counted)—_before loosening slightly._

_Kohaku felt the descent before he saw it, he his fingers curled into the dark fabric of the man's robes. The man smiled pleasantly, and Kohaku's eyes widened when he realized where they were, realized that they were at the foot of the mountain, realized that he was going to have to climbclimb__**climb—**_

_The man set Kohaku on the ground._

_The strings were still tangled in his fingers._

"_It's going to hurt," Kohaku whispered, his glassy eyes taking in the sight of jagged, vicious rocks. "I'm still bleeding."_

"_You're still broken," the man agreed, though to what, Kohaku didn't know._

_A hand descended into Kohaku's hair, fingers tangled in his strings. The tug was faint, but there, and the ever-constant thrum of pain echoed out from base of his neck, trickling its way down his spine._

"_It's time to go, Kohaku," the man said at length, and Kohaku cringed, watching as the man began to climb the mountain, the thread still tangled about his fingers._

_The man tugged, and just like before, Kohaku staggered to his feet to follow._

_**Like a puppet.**_

_There was nothing but pain._

_(_Again.)

* * *

The rice was tasty on Kohaku's tongue as he went from hot to cold and back again. Miroku sat across from his, tray poised in his lap as he dipped his wooden chopsticks into the bowl of rice. Miroku ate slowly, methodically. Kohaku watched, the fever lingering at the edge of his mind, but the throbbing in his leg was too painful to ignore.

Kohaku thought he had recognized the bite mark, had seen it somewhere before, sometime long ago, but the thought was instantly expelled from his mind the moment the first spasm of pain had him collapsing to the floor once again. Miroku had been quick to set him on his feet—_pain, again, though Kohaku couldn't remember why—_and the monk's hands were hot as they gripped him under the armpits, lifting Kohaku with a strength the littlest taijiya wasn't aware the monk possessed.

Oh, Kohaku knew that he _had _it. He had seen it, in those battles from Before. He had seen the way he was able to sheath the wind tunnel the second the poisonous insects broke past the protective barrier of Miroku's comrades. Had seen it when each time Miroku would drop sickly to one knee, his skin the ugly pallor of green. Had seen it in the way Miroku recovered, time and time again. It was strange and frustrating and fascinating, and Kohaku wondered why he nearly cried out in pain the instant his feet had touched the floor, because there had been no pain, only the faint echo of half-existence that left him feeling bitter and weak.

The silence was nearly unbearable, but Kohaku had dealt with worse before. He could handle it. He could handle the way Miroku avoided looking at him, could handle the way those dark, fathomless eyes stayed trained on the food before them or the rafters of the ceiling. Miroku's free hand twitched nonstop, the fingers thumping against the strong bend of his knee, and Kohaku watched, fascinated, as Miroku's brow would furrow, smooth, then furrow again.

"How long has it been?"

The abrupt question didn't startle Miroku, not the way Kohaku wanted it to. Kohaku waited until Miroku finally lifted his gaze and licked a stray grain of rice off of his chopsticks.

Miroku's gaze went flat.

"Since when?"

"Since Sango left."

Kohaku took another bite of rice, chewing thoughtfully as Miroku turned away from him, lips curved downwards into a frown.

"A while."

Miroku was being perfectly ambiguous, Kohaku knew. The anger Kohaku was expecting shot through him with the force of a wrecking ball, but died just as quickly. Only the faint, lingering echo of what was meant to be hate unfurled in Kohaku's chest, spreading out like little rivers of poison. Absently, Kohaku chewed on his wooden chopsticks, wondering if Miroku would ever just _stop._

Somehow, Kohaku didn't think he would.

Curling his toes into his blanket, Kohaku watched Miroku closely as the older man did everything he could not to catch Kohaku's eye—desperation, surely, because the constant battle of _sleepfeverawareness_ was wearing on him just as much as it was wearing on Miroku. The only difference was, Kohaku didn't care. Whatever it was that kept pulling him back into his pathetic half-existence (_Sango, _Kohaku wanted to think, but he didn't think it was, not anymore) was nothing compared to the painful ache of claws running through his mind, dipping into proverbial brain matter and leaving thick lacerations across the very core of thought.

"I'm tired," Kohaku said at last, setting his food aside.

"Hmm," Miroku hummed absently, shoveling another bite of rice into his mouth. Almost as an afterthought, his lips quirked up into an amused smile, and Kohaku felt the burning anger coalesce in him again—that was the Miroku he remembered, the one who laughed at everything he said without regret or regard to his feelings, without even _caring—_

_But since when has that mattered? _Kohaku thought bitterly, shoving the tray off of his lap. His bowl clattered loudly against the floor, tiny grains of rice skittering across the uneven wooden surface haphazardly.

"I'm _tired,_" Kohaku said again, his eyes narrowing when Miroku regarded him with dark eyes. "When is Sango coming back?"

Miroku smiled vaguely. "Since when has Sango mattered?"

"She _always_ matters," Kohaku said venomously, his words shooting across the tense atmosphere like poison darts. Miroku smiled again, a smile that only Sango could understand, Kohaku knew, because it was a smile that was almost always reserved for Sango. The bitterness spread over his tongue like a thin film, and Kohaku fervently wished that he could go back to numbness that had entrapped him just a moment before, wished he could go back to not caring. But Miroku always knew how to bring out the worst in him (_except the worst had been there to begin with and Kohaku was tired of the anger, tired of the bitterness, tired of everything, including himself)._

"For me, perhaps," Miroku continued setting his chopsticks aside.

Hate, cool as ice and as sharp as glass shards pumped through Kohaku's veins; his expression smoothed out into one he was familiar with, one which Naraku had helped him perfect ("_do you want to forget?" Naraku asked, and Kohaku said yes with all the shame and despair and self-loathing that was permitted to him, ignoring his own cowardice and stepping head-long into his hated half-existence which only half-existed to begin with). _Miroku regarded him slowly, watching as Kohaku's lips fell open, as a cool breath puffed out into the open air.

_Empty,_ Kohaku thought, because that was all he felt. Except he knew it wasn't true. Because if he were empty he wouldn't feel both hot and cold at the same time, wouldn't see the itch curling about Miroku's fingers like some damnable disease, begging to be satiated. Because Miroku had always been hot—_too hot, _Kohaku remembered (_irony)_, because he had felt him, even though the hypothermia was pricking at him painfully, seeping into his bones until they ached and leaving Kohaku crying tears of agony because the cold just wouldn't go away, even though it had already accompanied that burning heat. Miroku was hot, painfully so, like fire sweeping across his mind, or the press of Naraku's magic as it swept away all his memories, leaving nothing but a charred husk and an empty puppet.

Kohaku's lips twisted bitterly.

"_Liar,_" he hissed, watching in delight as he caught Miroku's eye. Silence stretched between them. Kohaku's gaze held.

"Liar," he whispered again, once he found his voice. Miroku's lips quirked, and the stab of anger Kohaku felt whenever he saw that expression came, swift and true, but it didn't matter because Kohaku _knew._ Laughing breathlessly, Kohaku shed his blanket and moved across the room, the sudden _understanding _in Miroku's gaze making everything _that much better_.

Stopping when his toes brushed Miroku's robe, Kohaku leaned forward, lifting his hands up to frame Miroku's face. Kohaku chuckled softly.

"You are such a liar," Kohaku reiterated.

Miroku's gaze was pure fire. (_Just like the rest of him.)_

"If you insist," Miroku replied, his heavy hands curling around Kohaku's wrists. Kohaku watched, fascinated, as Miroku tugged on them lightly (_always controlled by others, never by himself)_ bringing Kohaku closer to him. Their foreheads touched; Kohaku's pulse jumped at the sudden proximity, and he couldn't explain why, but the cool ice of his hate splintered into a thousand tiny fragments and melted away as his body suddenly went scorching hot. Sweat beaded on his brow, trickling in between his eyebrows and down the ridge of his nose. Miroku watched the progression, his dark eyes fathomless and unreadable—

(_master)_

—but so clearly Miroku, Kohaku couldn't help but recognize it.

"I do insist," Kohaku replied, hilarity coloring his voice. "But when it comes to Sango, I don't think you do."

Kohaku's knees bent, and he lowered himself to the floor. Miroku's fingers loosened slightly, as though in surprise, and with the vicious fury of an animal attacking its prey, Kohaku slithered closer, his scarred fingers reaching out to grip the fabric of Miroku's purple robe.

Miroku remain impassive.

"Why did Sango leave?"

"I thought I had," Miroku responded to Kohaku's statement instead, ignoring the question, his eyes lowering to watch as Kohaku's fingers smoothed the wrinkles out of the purple fabric. Kohaku smiled, razor sharp.

"Liar, liar. Liar, liar, _liar._"

"If you insist on me being a liar, I can not fathom how you will believe my truth, regardless of the many different ways I present it to you."

Kohaku sat back, folding his hands in his lap. He caught Miroku's eye once again—those dark and unreadable eyes—and he wondered what had shifted, what was different, but then—_I already know, _Kohaku thought, lifting his hands to grab Miroku's face once again. Miroku's skin was warm, just like his hands. Kohaku marveled at how he could feel that warmth through his own fever and delirium. He had certainly felt it once before.

"Humor me then," Kohaku said, his grip tightening. "Present me with a truth. Tell me… tell me why she left."

Miroku said nothing, and Kohaku's fingers pressed harder, indenting into the soft flesh of Miroku's face. Kohaku could picture bruises—if he were strong enough (_but he was never strong, not when it counted_)—blossoming under the pads of his fingers, bursting blood vessels unfurling beneath the surface of Miroku's skin like flowers opening up to drink in the hazy rays of the sun.

Miroku's lips curved into a charming smile, and without thinking, Kohaku pressed his fingers harder, his body closer; his knees dug into the flesh of Miroku's folded legs, and he relished it, relished the way Miroku's body jerked into stillness, the way those unfathomable eyes remained locked on his own, unreadable thoughts swirling around, trying to battle against Kohaku's own—

"I let her."

Kohaku's blood pounded in his ears.

"Again."

Miroku's brows lifted.

"Tell me _again_," Kohaku said, softening his grip.

"I let her go," Miroku responded, speaking more clearly. "I did not stop her. I hardly tried."

Kohaku's hands curled into fists as he pulled them away from Miroku's face; nails bit into flesh, the spark of resentment he had felt so many times before coiling about within him like tiny snakes, slithering through his ribs and nestling there. The wound on his chest throbbed in tandem with the bite on his thigh, one which Kohaku remembered from ages ago (_but didn't_) and the sudden swirl of half-thoughts clouding his mind left him tired.

"I think you hate me," Kohaku said in response.

Miroku's mouth opened, as if to say something, but Kohaku saw the words get caught in the other mans throat. Watching wearily as they tried to untangle themselves from the monk's severe self-control, Kohaku leaned back, his legs sliding painfully from Miroku's lap; heat fled him, the cool air stinging his skin, only to be replaced by the phantom heat of fever—the fever that mocked him and hung around his head in the dense fog of that sickly miasma Kohaku could only half-remember, even if he could remember it well.

"You _should,_" Kohaku corrected a moment later, curling his fingers against his knees. "But you don't."

There was a terse moment of silence. Miroku shifted, mirroring Kohaku's position, and then—

"No," Miroku said at last. "I don't."

(_He was tired.)_

(_Kohaku was the only one to notice.)_

_(__**Again.**__)_

* * *

Inuyasha caught the pulse in the air, but not the scent—this monster had no scent, Sango knew, because Kirara hadn't been able to pick it up either. It was simply the pulsation of power and the quick sting of toxins as nails bit into flesh and pumped the liquid poison into its prey. It had happened to Kohaku, quick as lightening; the boy had been poised, kusarigama partially raised as Sango swooped in—_you'll be the back up, _Sango had said, darting forward with Miroku as the youkai moved from its cover beneath the foliage—ready to strike the demon through its ribs. And then, with a swiftness that neither Miroku or Sango were prepared for, the youkai slipped past their defenses, honing in on the smallest taijiya as if he were a beacon; a twisted smile curled the monster's lips, eyes sparkling as a fizzle of _something_ crackled through the air and then—

Nothing. Stillness. A cessation of movement.

Claws bit into flesh, the sizzle of poison melting it away until there was an open, gaping wound, leaking blood. The kusarigama lurched in Kohaku's hands, dipping forward until it plunged into the youkai's chest cavity; a minor scrape, nothing damaging, but it was enough for the youkai to jump away, a trail of poison clouding the air before disintegrating as Kohaku breathed it in, his voice raspy as Sango dropped down beside him, pressing her clean hands against his bloodied chest.

And then the fever took him.

Brushing away the sticky webs of her thoughts, Sango watched as the cool snick of metal met her ears; the Tessaiga grew to its true size, gleaming brightly in the afternoon sunlight. The pulsation happened once again, quicker this time—_die, die, __**die—**_and Sango hefted her boomerang, knuckles white as she waited, eyes trained on the large expanse of open land before them.

"Feh," Inuyasha grunted, taking a few steps forward. His ears flickered back and forth on his head, once, then twice, then three times and—movement. Swift, untraceable movement, and Inuyasha was gone, lured away by the threat of a fight, bloodlust (_or maybe not, _Sango thought, thinking on how her blood burned whenever she thought of the youkai which threatened her brother, her dear, darling Kohaku, time and time again) tingeing Inuyasha's eyes red and elongating his claws.

_Just __**die, **_Sango thought, waiting.

It was all she ever did, since the youkai hurt Kohaku.

_Don't worry, _came the whisper of thought on the edge of her mind. _He will._

The brush was so close—so frighteningly _unexpected—_Sango threw up her boomerang without thought, arms jarring as the claws of the demon crashed into the thick bone of her boomerang. The acidic tinge of poison melting through the rough material had Sango jerking away—burgundy eyes met brown (_familiar)_—but the moment was ruined the second Inuyasha descended, blade crashing into the ground, separating human from beast.

"_Idiot_," Inuyasha snarled, shooting Sango a vicious look. He moved away before Sango could say a word, chasing after the demon, sword poised and ready to strike, only to falter as the youkai pivoted on its foot and brought its poison-wrought claws up to slash at Inuyasha.

Claws met the fabric of Inuyasha's fire-rat robe; a curse was issued forth into the air as Inuyasha spun away, bringing his sword down in a horizontal slice through the air. The youkai moved away, eyes darting to Sango momentarily before Inuyasha engaged him once again—strike, parry, block, blow, feint, strike, parry, _block_… over and over again, Inuyasha and the youkai met, neither one managing to land a blow on one another, just slowly wearing the other down…

Desperate and furious for the fight to end, Sango tracked the two demon's movement with her eyes, shouldering her boomerang. Clods of grass disintegrated under the force of the youkai's poison, was cleaved through and blown away with the force of Inuyasha's Wind Scar. Slowly, so as not to catch the attention of the two demons, Sango withdrew her katana, dropping low to the ground as the constant pulse-pulse-_pulse_ thrummed relentlessly in her head—_here I am, here I am, you'll never catch me, _the youkai crooned, sing-song, as though it were a jaunty tune in desperate need of a listen.

_He'll still die._

_No, _Sango thought furiously, waiting for her moment. _He won't. I won't let him. I won't let anyone take Kohaku from me ever again._

A strange feeling coiled up in the pit of her stomach, settling like lead. Lips pressed firmly together, Sango watched, waiting and waiting and waiting and _waiting—_

Inuyasha cursed, bring the youkai closer to Sango's position, his sword whipping through the air as the youkai dropped low, brown eyes tinged yellow glinting strangely in the afternoon light—

The piercing sound of Sango's sword cutting the air caused Inuyasha to falter, his eyes flicking over in the taijiya's direction. His amber eyes widened, determination bleeding out of them as the sword met its mark; metal sunk into flesh, cleaving through muscles and sinews. Blood stained the gleaming metal crimson, running down the blade until it pooled against the hilt, and brown eyes (_familiar_) looked at her in surprise, flickering oddly as the first spasm of pain ripped through the youkai's shoulder. A moment of silence passed, where everyone seemed frozen in shocked surprise, the constant pulsation of power nothing more than a quiet, half-existent hum…

"NO!" Inuyasha exploded suddenly, rushing forward. Sango jerked, ready to push the sword in deeper, ready to rend the youkai limb from limb, to see the sword slid through the youkai's ribs and pierce its heart, but Inuyasha's hand had already wrapped around her throat and tossed her away.

Her lungs burned as she connected sickeningly with the ground, her vision blurry. There was the faint sound of a sword imbedding into the rocky earth, hidden somewhere behind the agonizing pulsation of power—"_IDIOT!"_ Inuyasha screamed, and Sango saw the sky rain crimson.

Breath caught in her throat, stuck, and she scrambled to her feet, tiny prisms of light dancing in front of her eyes—_Inuyasha, _she thought deliriously, even as the youkai's taunt echoed loudly in her head, caught on the aftershocks of her labored breathing, _you… you…_

"He'll still die, Sango," the youkai whispered, his voice sickly sweet as it caught on the wind.

"_No!_" Sango screamed, reaching for her boomerang.

Two clawed hands wrapped around her wrists like iron manacles.

Blinking, Sango felt one final pulsation—_poisondeathdelirium, you couldn't wake him up, could you?—_before it skittered completely out of reach, the only sign that the youkai had been there in the first place being Sango's crimson stained blade, stuck steadfastly in the ground.

Tremors shook her body, her eyes widened to an impossible size; words caught in her throat and ravaged her mind like hordes of demons scouring the land, picking off human after human with only the faintest flick of their wrists. Desperation clung to her, drowned her, and with all the hysteria that had plagued her the moment Kohaku's angry words—_I hate him—_echoed in the air around him, Sango whirled around, tears burning her eyes as she jerked her arms out of Inuyasha's tight hold.

"_INUYASHA!_"

"Feh," Inuyasha responded sullenly, his ears flickering back and forth as Sango's chest heaved with her fury. She stared at him accusingly, watching as he yanked her sword out of the ground, his fingers smearing the youkai's blood into streaks against her blade. Sango watched, knowing what to say but not being able to—_you let him go, _Sango thought, the tears becoming more pronounced (_so __**tired**__), you saved him, Inuyasha._

The betrayal stung more than the youkai's words—_demons will be demons, _a phantom voice whispered, reminding her of memories, buried and half-forgotten, _not a single one can be trusted_—because Inuyasha was supposed to be her ally. Her _friend._ He was not supposed to betray her, wasn't supposed to let her brother come one step closer to death… and hadn't it been Inuyasha, time and time again, who kept her from landing that fatal blow, who told her that Kohaku's life was worth saving, despite the pain she felt inside whenever Naraku imposed his control and ordered Kohaku around like a lifeless puppet dangling on sticky, half-frayed marionette strings?

But to let the youkai escape now, when she had been so close to finally getting her revenge…

Inuyasha wiped his fingers off on his hakama, cleaning Sango's blade against the grass.

Inuyasha's ears flattened, his fangs bared as he shot Sango a disgusted look.

Sango didn't notice.

Inuyasha's fingers were stained yellow.

* * *

_There was nothing left._

"_That's because you haven't found it."_

_**I'm trying. Can't you see I'm trying?**_

"_Not nearly hard enough," the man replied, crouching from his position above Kohaku, both of his sandaled feet pressed against flat, solid ground. The kind of ground Kohaku wanted to be on, because then the rocks wouldn't be pushing into the bottom of his bloodied feet; feet, which were infected with dirt, and something else, because the cloud of miasma had already begun to choke him, seeping down into his lungs and burning him from the inside out._

_Not the pleasant burn that resonated from the man, but something more, something which made him want to cry out in his weakness and release the jagged rocks he held onto as though they were a lifeline._

_The man wouldn't let him. Kohaku's strings were still tangled firmly around his fingers._

"_I'm tired," Kohaku said, releasing one rock to extend his hand. The man grabbed him without thought, pulling him up (_always up, always when it counted.)

(It was never enough.)

_Kohaku's fingers curled into the fabric of the man's robes and he inhaled once again, the toxic sting of the floating miasma rushing through his air passages and forming into dense little clouds within his chest. The man smiled, the same charming, enigmatic smile he always smiled and cradled Kohaku to him, allowing Kohaku to rest. They sat there, warmth and heat and ice _(from hot to cold and back again), _Kohaku content to revel in the man's presence._

(It hurt.)

"_Of course you're tired," the man said at length. "It must be difficult, this half-existence."_

_Kohaku's fingers tightened in the man's clothes._

"_Do you remember me yet?" The man questioned, amused._

_**No. But I want to.**_

"_Not enough," the man replied, setting Kohaku back on his feet. The strings tangled, pulled, and Kohaku felt the agony at the base of his neck, even as he hurried forward, his arm brushing the robes of his masterpuppeteer__**god.**_

_Fingers shot out, curling around his arm tightly._

"Kohaku."

_Kohaku froze, turning to catch the man's—unreadable, unfathomable—eyes but thick fingers were already touching the crimson stain blossoming on the back of Kohaku's indigo clothing, beneath the sharp blade of his shoulder._

_Kohaku's ribs ached in the phantom pain._

"_The pain will exist," the man said, "even if you do not."_

_**I know. But I want to.**_

"_Are you strong enough to find it?"_

"_Find what?" Kohaku asked, shifting his throbbing feet._

_The man smiled._

"_The other half of your existence."_

_Kohaku frowned and looked away, even as the man wiped bloody fingers against the hard, stone wall._

"_Why are you here?" Kohaku asked again, and the man tugged on Kohaku's strings, guiding him forward._

"_I thought I had already said. I am here because you wanted me here."_

_The man started to scale the wall, his sandaled feet finding purchase on protruding stones._

"_Why?"_

_The man paused, the strings loosening on his fingers. A vague smile graced his lips._

"_Were you expecting someone else?"_

_Kohaku frowned. He thought, but there was no direction. Fingers skimmed his jaw line, tracing flesh softly._

"_Hmm," the man said, turning back to the mountain and gripping the stones in front of him. "I thought not."_

_But Kohaku still didn't understand._

_**There's no one else but you.**_

_The man laughed and continued his climb up the mountain. The strings pulled. Stung._

_Kohaku followed._

_**Like a puppet.**_

_(Again.)_

* * *

A moment of uncomprehending, sleep-induced horror slicked over him like a thin sheen of water, and Kohaku could only watch in mild fascination as the sheets of his bed roll shone scarlet in the dim morning light—_red, _a whispered thought from long ago nagged him, reminding him of fingers dipping into open, pus filled wounds and the heavy scent of Miroku's musk as a robe was tossed over his head, obscuring his view of the bright sun, _red, red, red, red, RED (__**wrong**__). _The sharp throbs of pain in his back and rippling outwards, cording through his muscles and setting his nerves afire hastily thrust Kohaku out of that sleep-induced stupor. With a panic he hadn't felt in ages, he scrambled to his feet, twisting his arm behind his back and letting out a harsh, shocked sob as the skin on his back just _pulled; _liquid spilled, and heat slicked his brow, just as blood began to slick his back, and it was only when strong hands enveloped his wrist and held him still that Kohaku felt any semblance of calm settle within him.

Miroku's hands were pure fire.

The air felt stagnant, tense, but Kohaku persevered, fighting back panic—or whatever else had nestled its way within him. A hot cloth came first, followed by the pressure; the constant, agonizing, _throbbing _pressure, but after a while, even that abated and all Kohaku could feel was a lingering numbness as Miroku worked carefully to clean his wound. His vision faded in and out—from gray to white to gray again—and the phantom whisper of something…curiosity, perhaps, because Kohaku could imagine it being nothing else, echoed in the back of his mind.

The question itched, scratched as aggravatingly as the bandages on his shoulder did—_another wound, another scar to add to the collection. _But then—why? There was no sense, no rhyme or reason to the injury, and he certainly could not remember receiving them, except…

There was a flicker, the faintest wisp of miasma clotting his brain, Kohaku thought—

—but then Miroku was tying off the bandage, and there was _agony, _and Kohaku could think of nothing except—

"Miroku."

Miroku pat Kohaku's shoulder dismissively, and when Kohaku could finally see through the gray, Miroku's shoulders were tense. His jaw was clenched tightly, his dark eyes as unfathomable as ever before, and for a moment, Kohaku wanted to ask, wanted to know what it was that grated on the monk so heavily, but…

"Kohaku," Miroku said at long last, staring down at the bloody bedroll, his expression firm. "Why—?"

"I…" Kohaku started, only to falter, because the wisp was there again, begging him to look, begging him to grab hold and _pull, _but—terror. Miasma. Kohaku thought he recognized it, knew where it hailed from, and he was _frightened _but he didn't want to admit it, not now, not with Miroku there, not in front of Miroku when he had finally _won._

_(But hadn't.)_

So he lied.

"I don't know."

Miroku noticed.

Like a slippery serpent, that smile that Kohaku _hated_ curved Miroku's lips—absent, amused, unfathomable, and _gods, _how Kohaku hated it because it meant that he was back where he had started and—

Kohaku curled his fingers into Miroku's. The smile vanished.

_So easy, _Kohaku thought smugly, victoriously.

(_The strings frayed._)

(_Snapped.)_

_(**How like his precious little puppet.**_)

* * *

The color was wrong. Inuyasha knew it, knew it better than he knew how to kill—and there were so many different ways, so many different avenues to take when it came to death, but however he may have perfected the art of death, it was never mindless, never without emotion and—_gods, _he had seen it, hadn't he? In Sango, in the way she was striving so hard to just—kill. Be the demon slayer she was. The demon slayer she was born to be. Stupid, idiotic _demon slayers, _and for a moment, Inuyasha could see the evil thought churning in her mind, years of training and discipline sprouting its ugly head—_a demon can never be trusted; their words are nothing but poison. In the end, they will always betray you._ She wore the mantra like a mask, allowing it to slip over her face and tarnish everything there ever was between them.

Fealty, or something like it, was the only thing that kept them traveling together. Or, maybe, the fact that Sango couldn't handle the demon on her own—she'd even said it, admitted to it. Sango hated being weak, hated being unable to protect those she cared about most, and—the emotion. The emotion driving this stupid, mindless, _idiotic—_the irritation built, followed swiftly by rage because—how could she not see? How could Sango not _understand?_

Humans were idiots by nature, but Sango… Inuyasha had respected her, once upon a time. Had considered himself lucky to be able to fight alongside of her, to have someone like her fighting alongside of him. Strong, and determined, and fuck it, but she had wanted Naraku dead, too, and what more could he have asked for in a comrade?

Inuyasha's fingers curled, his knuckles cracking at the motion. His fingers, long and clawed, were still stained with the remnant blood that had coated Sango's katana. His hands had long since been cleaned, but even so—his fingers were yellow. It was wrong—should have fucking washed off, but—there it was, clear as day. Yellow. _Yellow._

Inuyasha had recognized it the moment he felt it, that pulsation of power. Had felt the pulse only one place before, in one person before and—fuck, Sango was an idiot. The biggest fucking—_gods, _but Inuyasha wanted to just _hit her. _The hate was there, clouding everything, and… it was moments like these, moments when he wished that… Inuyasha growled low in his throat, leaning more firmly against the trunk of a tree, his sword propped against his shoulder. Humans were stupid, plain and simple. And whatever was driving Sango, whatever rage she was feeling towards this youkai—Inuyasha's lips curled and he released another low snarl—she would need to get over it and quick, because Inuyasha didn't relish the repercussions of this fight.

If only Kohaku were around so Sango—

The power pulsed, thrummed. Inuyasha watched as Sango's body went taut, her eyes snapping open, that poison whirling throughout her veins, burning each and every part of her a vengeful, hateful green—Inuyasha glanced down at his fingers, ignoring the faint pulsation of power, ignoring the way it lashed against his thoughts, begging for attention. His yellow fingers (_still stained_) curled around the sheath of his sword and he set his jaw, tense and waiting.

Inuyasha snorted. _If __**only**__._

_He'll die, _a voice whispered, and Inuyahsa watched as Sango jumped to her feet, her katana swinging upwards as the youkai suddenly darted in, his presence pushing against their minds violently, practically _screaming_—

_Look at me. Look at me. I see you. Why don't you ever see **me**?_

_Because she doesn't want to, _Inuyasha thought, springing up with a curse as Sango gave chase. _Because she can't. _

Because if Inuyasha thought about it—and he had, the moment his sword clashed against the youkai's claws, the moment the acrid scent of miasma (_a familiar, __**hated**__ miasma) _burned his nostrils, the moment he touched the wet of Sango's blade and blood crusted and flaked yellow from his fingers—it was obvious why she wouldn't. Why Sango was afraid. Why she would pretend—or not pretend, because she might not have known—that the youkai was something _(someone)_ different. And even if Sango didn't realize who, Inuyasha _did_.

The youkai had Kohaku's eyes.


	3. In His Skin

**Title: **Pretext

**Summary**: Because everybody needs one.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Inuyasha.

**Author's Note: **So, curse those other fandoms, yeah? If not for them, this would have been done, like, eight months ago. Well… maybe not, but it feels good to think so, lolz. And I so lost count of how many times I've mutilated Kohaku. Like, seriously, the poor boy is damn near _crippled_ with the amount of bodily damage he has sustained through the course of this story, oi.

**Warnings: **Warnings are the same. Plus a severe misuse and abuse of the italics and parentheses.

This is a half-update. Or what I consider to be a half-update... in other words, only half of what was _supposed to be in this chapter_ has been posted. The story was supposed to be DONE with this chapter. But I suck. Big balls. Sorry.

* * *

_He reached the top._

_A strange, indescribable feeling enshrouded him—the heady, thick scent of miasma burned his throat. Timidly, he reached out—warm hands, hands too hot, gripped his fingers. Small, blistered, aching. Legs trembled fiercely at the nothing-nothing-nothing that was left (no will, no way). Tiny fragments of rock bit into flesh—like talons he could remember reaching deep inside of him, slipping across his chest, dipping into the __**red red red **__of his heart. Lungs forgot to breathe—or, rather, knew how, but stopped, because—_

_Blood. Death. Dying._

_(_but not dead_)_

("You hurt yourself again, didn't you?")

_**No, **__he thought, because hurt couldn't even describe it. __**I just—**_

"_Can't remember. Have nothing left. I know," the man said pleasantly, turning to face him. A lump formed in Kohaku's throat, because those hated, unfathomable eyes were staring at him once again, the smile that he hatedhated__**hated**__ was curving those lips. Only, he couldn't hate it, because there was __**nobody but him**__ and Kohaku couldn't understand the terror. The despair. _

_They stopped at a cloud of poison._

"_So," the man started after a long, terrifying moment of silence. "Can you see it?"_

_Kohaku frowned. _

"_No."_

_**What do you want me to see?**_

"_Whatever you want to see. You do want to find it, don't you?"_

_**Find what?**_

"_The other half of your existence, of course."_

_Kohaku inched forward, shooting a strange glance at the man before him. His feet ached, trails of dirty blood following in his wake—Kohaku's head was swimming, empty, but for the tangled threads of his thoughts—thoughts half-forgotten, not remembered. Incapable of being remembered. Incapable of __**existing, **__even if it was his right. Even if he should have. Even if he __**didn't. **__Nothing existed for him. Not anymore. Nothing except—_

_**Him.**_

_**Why are you so important?**_

_The half-thoughts bothered him. Destroyed him. But then—remade. In ways he couldn't remember, and that was the problem, wasn't it? That was why the man was so important, because he was helping him to remember. But in remembering, there was pain. A pain Kohaku didn't want to feel anymore. A pain that Kohaku could do without because—_

_("_You hurt yourself again, didn't you?")

—_he was tired of hurting._

_**When is **__my__** happiness?**_

_(dying, but not dead)_

_A strange surge of courage prodded Kohaku's will. The man stepped forward, the strings at the base of Kohaku's neck pulling—a swift, brutal tug sent Kohaku stumbling forward, spasms of agony shooting up his feet and spreading fire along his nerves. He knelt by the thick haze, eyes turning to Kohaku imploringly—dark eyes, hot eyes, eyes that exuded warmth in thick waves of—of—_

_Kohaku's chest hurt._

_Following obediently (pathetic marionette__**doll**__boy), Kohaku kneeled. The stench of the miasma clotted his airways, sent burning paths of poison-death-delirium to his lungs. Kohaku coughed, rubbed at his eyes—his feet throbbed as he settled beside the man, watching as the dense miasma clouded the air, floating around them in a collection of thick half-there particles._

"_It's in there, isn't it?" Kohaku asked._

_The man smiled ambiguously. "Only if—"_

"—_I want it to be." Kohaku paused, turning an unfathomable expression upon the equally unfathomable man beside him. "I don't."_

"_And why is that?"_

_The faint trickling of the half-thoughts—half-thoughts that were only half-there, half-existing in the half-world of… __**nothing—**__lingered, trapped between the particles like a prisoner. _

_**I'm scared.**_

"_Of course you're scared. It's only natural. I'd be scared as well, if I had to face down the other half of my existence. Particularly if it contained a part of me I'd rather forget."_

_**A part of me I'd rather forget?**_

_Kohaku watched the man. Somehow, his words rang untrue._

_**But… all I ever wanted was to remember. To exist.**_

"_I'm tired of not existing."_

_**Completely.**_

_The man nodded, stood. Grabbed Kohaku's strings and _tugged. _Kohaku stumbled to his feet, tears pricking at the painpain__**pain**__ that blossomed at the base of his neck. Like a thick sludge, it oozed down his spine, radiated across his shoulders blades and out towards his chest. The faint memory of blood—(red blood, yellow blood, wrong blood, just __**blood**__)—soaking the front of his robes, seeping through festering pustules of infection, tickled his senses. The strange musky scent of another human being—__**what was his name?**__—floated into his nasal passages, creeping out of the dark craggy imprints of his thoughts. Dark, unfathomable eyes prodded at him, hidden behind the dusky particles of miasma—the miasma in his head, the miasma seeping down his throat and settling in his lungs like a thick layer of dust._

_A reflection of what used to be was mirrored in the miasma—before the strings, before the pain, before—_

_(_"You hurt yourself again, didn't you?"_)_

_**I should remember that voice.**_

_Kohaku inched closer to the miasma, quickly snatching the man's hand in his own._

_**I should remember **_him.

"_I think you should find it," the man said. Kohaku breathed, the poison particles detaching from the cloud and collecting behind his sternum._

_**I will.**_

_Kohaku stepped forward, enveloped by the cloud._

_The man's lips curled pleasantly, and he followed without thought._

_(_Irony_.)_

_

* * *

_

_Miroku—_

—was just a thought. Kohaku stared blankly at his fingers, an uncomfortable pressure curled around his lungs. It had been that way since the morning, since he had first woken up and the agonizing burst of each breathe from his lungs reminded him of nothing but the _poison-death-delirium_ of Naraku's miasma. Scars spider-webbed across Kohaku's knuckles—knuckles he had brushed against Miroku's, time and time again, if only to feel that ever constant state of _triumph, _of knowing that there was something Miroku could not fight against, could not take away from him.

(he had already taken Sango, after all_)_

(it was only fair that he _get it back)_

_(_that absent other-half, the not-there-but-there echo_ of being) _

The triumph was heady, like a drug. Like the sickness that slammed into his head, making his blood pump faster (yellow against his fingertips, against his clothes, reeking of wrongness, but needing it anyways) through his veins, reminding him that there was excitement and want and _victory_ and that the victory was _his, all his. _There was nothing to stop it, no one to keep it from happening. Miroku couldn't fight against it. Miroku was helpless. Miroku was—_marionettedollboy—_weak.

Somehow, the thought churned acidic.

The webs on his hand stretched, expanded. Pinkish white skin curled horrifically, and all Kohaku saw was—

—a memory he would rather forget, kept stashed away behind the pressure in his lungs, and the triumph that pushed aside the sickness. But the sickness was still there, clinging to him like a thin sheen of sweat. Kohaku _felt_ it; deeply rooted, spreading like a cancerous rot throughout his body. Bandages encircled his legs and torso, dotted with the wrong-red blood, ointment slicked greasy against his skin. Miroku was there-there-there all the time, and the itch was driving the monk to the brink; the tap-tap-tap of Miroku's fingers against wood in the echoing silence of the hut grated against Kohaku's nerves.

An impatience, one that Kohaku could do without (like the memories, the not-there wisps of want that needed to be placed in mosaic in his head—form the whole picture, the little fractured pieces of _him_) firmed Kohaku's jaw.

Miroku was grinding up herbs. Making the healing paste. Kohaku wiped beads of sweat from his forehead, watched as a hand clothed in deep purple and clinking with prayer beads that were no longer needed—(his wishes are always answered after all_)—_gripped the mortar and pestle. Flakes of green and brown and (redred_wrong_) gray splintered apart from the group and floated through the air, settling distinctly against the deep black of Miroku's robes.

Scars still webbed the back of Kohaku's hands. ("You hurt yourself again, didn't you?") Time pulled long, stretched short and contracted into something Kohaku couldn't recognize. A vague, phantom pain lingered across his chest and Kohaku wondered when Sango would be back. As usual. Because there was nothing else worth wondering about (except the hot-too-hot hands that would brush against his own, and the dark look he hated searing him with heat that wasn't meant for _him_ but was given freely, anyways_). _Because Sango was his sister and his world and (_lie)_ Kohaku _wanted her back._

"It must have hurt when she left you," Kohaku said, that uncaring surge of hate-turned-apathy-turned-cruelty prickling his skin. Miroku paused, his hands tightening until his knuckles turned white, and he glanced up carelessly, an absent smile curling his lips.

"It was necessary," Miroku replied. "Not only for her well-being, but for yours as well."

Kohaku's eyes narrowed, spider-web scars elongating horrifically against his knuckles. "For my… liar."

Miroku hummed softly, his lips still curled in that absent smile. His eyes were no longer focused on Kohaku, but instead on the herbs in front of him. Dark eyes that Kohaku wanted to see pinned on him were focusing on something else, but the fine tremor of _tension_ still lined every line of Miroku's body—_stop holding back, _Kohaku thought, leaning away from the wall, the pressure in his lungs tightening, _if you hate me then hate me. Let me __**see—everything. **_

_(_It was all he wanted, because at least if he had everything, there would be more than his own pathetic little half-existence, even if it was at the expense of another_.)_

"You're such a _liar,_" Kohaku said, close to snarling.

Miroku looked at him, unfathomable-hated-searing, and smiled ambiguously. "Only if you want me to be."

_Fracture. _Splintering apart like thin slivers of wood, or glass (_in his __**feet**__) _or particles of miasma because suddenly—_there was more than just him. _A phantom thought, locked in the craggy trenches of his mind dug deeply, only to ooze forward with a consistency of acidic sludge; it smoothed over the surface of his skin, tinged the color of wrong-red blood and pus-bright gold and his fingers came away yellow. Which was odd, really, because the last he remembered, blood was always supposed to be red, whether it was youkai or human or not. But then—

_(What am I looking for?_

_**The other half of your existence, of course**_.)

_(_he shouldn't even had been able to _find_ it_)_

_(_it was gone the second Sango had walked out the door, after all)

Miroku felt the weight of Kohaku's gaze like a thousand tons of water pressing down all around him. His too-large hands tightened around the pestle, his eyes slowly lifting—and there was nothing unfathomable about them now, just curiously guarded, because there was something wrong with Kohaku, something that only Miroku could see because _Miroku always saw him best. _Or most. Or _completely. _Even if there was only the half-existence, even if there was only blood soaked bandages or Kohaku's own fingers digging into the infection in his chest, or the blood slicking his leg and soaking his robes. Even if there was only the cold that dug down too deep and simply _ached_ and Miroku was the only one hot enough to _make it go away._

Kohaku trembled, warmth spreading like thick liquid across his chest.

(there was nothing left to give)

(Miroku had already taken _everything)_

(and accepted, without thought, because—)

There was nothing left for him.

Sango was _gone._

Chasing—demons, maybe. Or running from fear. Or sickness and death and the dying-but-not-dead syndrome of half-existence, but half of what made him exist was _already there_—

(_"I said that I would be whatever you wanted."_

"_Does that mean I wanted you?")_

Kohaku collapsed against Miroku, fingers tightening in the fabric of his robes. Miroku held still as stone, but Kohaku pressed his face into Miroku's shoulder desperately, because there was nothing else. There was no Sango, not in reality, not in his dreams. There was just him, just Miroku, and Kohaku knew why he was so important, wishing he could hate instead.

("I think you hate me… you should, but you don't."

"No. I don't."

_Miroku was tired, too._)

Miroku's fingers tap-tapped against the floor.

Kohaku held tighter.

After a moment, Miroku shifted his weight and Kohaku was pressed more firmly into his side. Kohaku waited, wanting to see what happened, soaking up the hot-too-hot heat that Miroku gave to everyone (but him), stealing it like the little chain of memories were stolen from his half-there mind. Images flashed before his mind—black on pink on red on _power_ and Sango's eyes, filled with tears and desperation because _he was keeping her from getting her revenge—_but then the images were lost because Miroku's hands were on his shoulders, so big and large and adult, and Kohaku followed the gentle push, moving back as his fingers slowly unclenched and released Miroku's robes.

The moment hung thick in the air. Then, "Kohaku."

No weight. Miroku was refusing to give it _weight._ The familiar hate splintered away from the apathy, lodging itself quite firmly in the cruelty, but as much as he tried, Kohaku could not give it substance. Rubbing a hand against his delicate chest, Kohaku felt the bandages pull—the delicious feel of almost-there pain made his breath hitch, and Miroku's hands were locked around Kohaku's wrists before the fingers could dip down and draw blood.

"Kohaku—"

"I think we should find her," Kohaku replied, tugging his wrists free and watching Miroku closely. "I think we should bring her back."

Miroku stilled.

"I doubt we would be able to," Miroku said at last. "Sango will go to great lengths and great distances just to ensure your safety. The demon—"

(—_beneath his skin—)_

(_—hidden in the webs of the past—)_

_(—in that there-but-not half-existence that only __**half-existed**__—) _

Kohaku settled in Miroku's lap. Laced their fingers together. Felt the tension exuding from every contour of Miroku's being, and with a flash of cruelty (because who was Miroku to deny him when Kohaku gave him _everything?_) Kohaku turned and pressed a hot, nearly-there kiss to the corner of Miroku's mouth.

Miroku snatched away as though he were on fire (_heat that wasn't meant for him, but given freely anyways_). Kohaku tumbled to the floor, his wounds pulling sharply, but—there. Pain meant that he was alive. Pain meant that he existed, even if it was only in halves. Miroku stood pressed against the wall, his eyes clenched tightly shut. His hands were curled into fists, white-knuckled and _straining_—(overstepping boundaries, but boundaries were crossed the moment Miroku took Sango)—and Kohaku could imagine there was hate churning beneath that violently tense exterior, only there was no hate in Miroku's heart. Only… something unfathomable. Something Kohaku couldn't quite access, but manipulate, because manipulation was easy. Manipulation gave way to triumph. That wonderful, heady feeling. Almost as sublime as the sickness had been, but the sickness kept him trapped in delirium whereas the triumph kept him caught in reality (_the half-way point between dreams and the complete cessation of __**existence**__)_.

And the reality of the situation was—

(_there was a demon in his skin_)

"We have to find her," Kohaku said vaguely, watching blood seep across his bandages.

(_but not)_

Miroku jerked, tense.

Kohaku reached for Miroku's fingers. Grabbed them.

Miroku held on tightly.

(_Still as stone because it was wrong, but it was all he had left to give.)_

_

* * *

_

Sango sat perfectly still, eyes trained on Inuyasha from across the fire. The half-demon lounged lazily, a scowl permanently etched across his face. Long claws gripped the hilt of the Tetsusaiga, amber eyes trained moodily on the fire in front of him. Three days they had been tracking the demon—Sango could feel her desperation mounting, could feel something clawing to get out and break free. Inuyasha was a calming presence in the back of her mind, except when he wasn't—_betrayal—_and Sango could see the blood-stained fingertips, even in the crackling orange hue that settled through the darkness.

The youkai was still there, on the edge of her senses. Not hurting, because the injury Kirara had given it seemed to have faded into nothingness. Not like the laceration across her soul, that aching, burning agony that continued to fester like a bubbling infection. Kohaku was sick (_dying but not dead) (he'll still __**die**__)_ and he hated Miroku with a passion that left Sango weak. Sango wanted Kohaku to live, needed it more than anything—

She remembered protecting him, when they were younger. Scars crisscrossed his flesh in a smattering of pink-red-white, new cuts bleeding because he couldn't handle the kusarigama with absolute precision. He had tried to sneak into the house, prepared to heal his own wounds (_shamed_), but Sango had caught sight of him and sighed lightly.

"_You hurt yourself again, didn't you?"_

Kohaku was always hurting himself, even now. Not being able to let go—hating Miroku, the man she loved more than anything (_except Kohaku_) and Sango feared for him. Feared for him in a way she never did when he was Naraku's _pawnpuppetdoll_ because at least Sango knew Naraku would continue to _use_ him, if only to bring more pain. More desperation. More of those gut-wrenching, wailing cries of agony because power over others was all Naraku ever wanted. The cruelty inherent in that disgusting half-demon comprised of weakness and desires and _want—_overpower the human, cut the flesh of its essence away until there was nothing but _demon-devil-damnation_ and then he wouldn't have to worry about Kikyou. The evil in his heart—the taint of a blackening Shikon-no-Tama—was more than enough to keep those demons afloat. More than enough to give them power.

Inuyasha had betrayed her.

The fear wouldn't be there, wouldn't be all-encompassing, if Inuyasha had left her to kill it. That demon in acid slicked skin with its poisonous thoughts and disease-ridden words. The fear would be gone, non-existent, the moment Sango thrust her katana through the demons chest (_one image super-imposed itself over another—one moment, it was the demon, dying in a pool of its red-yellow blood, and the next it was Kohaku, collapsed beneath a tree as his fingers dipped-dug-dragged through the tender, bloody wound on his chest). _

But then again, Inuyasha was a demon. A traitorous voice whispered that it was only typical.

Except it couldn't be. Because Inuyasha was _Inuyasha—_a half demon, yes, but one in love with a girl whose name was no longer spoken (_because when there was no Kagome, there was no pain—she was gone, gone, gone, and that hurt, the absence of her radiant presence). _A _miko. _A priestess who cleansed everything she touched—

Except there was no more cleansing. Hate was still there—Kohaku hating Miroku. Sango hating Inuyasha—or, rather, not hating him, but wishing that he could _understand. _Kohaku was _dying—_

"But not dead," Sango whispered, pressing her forehead into her knees. Inuyasha shifted, his gaze flicking towards her lazily. The sullen set of his mouth pressed into a firm line, but he didn't say anything, just continued to gaze into the fire, waiting, just like Sango, for the violent pin-prick-pulse of the youkai's powers and thoughts.

It didn't come.

"Keh," Inuyasha grunted, shifting his position. "Once again, you're an _idiot._"

Sango's head snapped up and she glared at him.

"You interfered," she accused, hands flexing around her knees. "You kept me from—"

"Making a _mistake," _Inuyasha snapped. "Now shut the hell up."

But Sango couldn't.

"It's trying to kill Kohaku," Sango replied, desperate. "Kohaku almost _died. _Why can't you understand that?"

Inuyasha snorted. "This is exactly why I can't stand humans. They're _stupid. _That youkai isn't trying to _kill _Kohaku. It wants his _attention._" Inuyasha paused, his amber eyes reflecting shimmers of lights. "And yours."

_Taunting._

That's all it was. A taunt—a challenge, a way to make her hurt. Inuyasha didn't know what he was talking about—that youkai had mauled Kohaku, let claws cleave cleanly through flesh, only for the wound to erupt in a spray of blood. Attention? No. Inuyasha was _wrong. _Blinded by the _demon-comrade-kinship_ that connected them together with their otherworldliness. Sure, the demon that tried to kill Kohaku (_it would not get away with it) _was nothing like Inuyasha. There was love in the half-demon, for the miko, for the girl who seemed to make everything right. Better. Inuyasha knew friendship, knew pain. That youkai didn't. It only gave pain. Was only full of cruelty. Manipulated and taunted and showed just how much _power_ it possessed and Sango _hated._

_memories of gleaming metal swinging through the air, attempting to pierce flesh as red-red-red glinted cruelly, pleased at the carnage—wind cutting passed their faces, nihility gripping at their souls and __**tugging**__—forgetting, because there was nothing left to remember in that sickly haze even as the kusarigama arced up into the air... the katana caught in the chain, because there had to be something better than this—she'd kill him a thousand times over before she'd ever let him be some demon's __**puppet**__—_

"I have to save him," Sango whispered. "I won't let anything hurt him anymore, Inuyasha. I promised."

Inuyasha snorted disgustedly. "I stopped you once before from doing something stupid," he said unforgiving, "I'll damn well do it again if I have to._"_

Sango didn't doubt the words. Resented them, just as she resented the demon (_but that was bone deep, all encompassing, unforgiving, __**dangerous**_), but she believed them, regardless.

(She didn't want to.)

* * *

_There was darkness all around him._

_Silky threads caught on him, around him, twining over his arms and closing tightly about his ankles. The cocoon of poison, for it could be nothing else, pressed down on him from all sides. Absently, he could feel the man pulling away—not because he wanted him to, but because the threads were trapping _him _as well—and Kohaku released his hand, a mild panic beginning to set in his bones._

_He didn't want to be alone._

_**But I'm not. He's here with me.**_

_Kohaku wished he knew his name._

"_You would if you wanted to."_

_But that meant that some part of him didn't. Though he could clearly remembering posing the question—"does that mean I wanted you?"—Kohaku had to acknowledge that, maybe—_

_The acknowledgement was lost. There was far too much poison._

_Yet he could not find it in himself to be frightened. Sure, there was much to be frightened for; there was obviously some truth he'd rather have forgotten. Half of his existence had been spirited away, lost, locked down into the very realm of non-existence. But the _why _was absent. Forgotten. So finding it—that other part of himself—was important. The questions he had asked could no longer be made because that calming, supporting presence by his side had drifted away, willingly released from its confines of _friend-puppet-guide _and trapped in the cocoon of his poison thoughts. Where the other half of him, the part he had forgotten, lay in wait, wanting to be discovered._

_Or needing to be. The planes of mind—the glass in his feet, the exhausting climb up the mountain, the gauzy haze of poison lingering atop the mountain—had been laid out before him. He remembered his mask crumbling, like a fine layer of dust. Trapped in his skin. The girl, the woman he could remember (_Sango_) but not floated by his mind's eye. She'd take care of him, he knew, but she wasn't there—no one but him. Alone._

_People weren't meant to be alone. Kohaku didn't _want to be. _And the man, his companion, with that everlasting warmth, had been the one he wanted into existing. Not hurting, because Kohaku didn't want him to hurt, just wanted him to _exist _and—_

_He needed to find her. Or himself. Or the man. Or maybe, neither of them, but something that was a part of him, something that needed to fit click-clack-perfect into the missing half of his existence. Because there was something missing. Something important._

_Here. In the haze._

_The cocoon tightened around him, but for some reason, Kohaku knew he couldn't let it. Yes, it would have been easy to just stand still, but… he wanted to remember. The man wanted him to remember and just maybe… maybe he could come up with a name other than his own. Maybe…_

_The threads loosened. _

_Stepping freely from the sticky web, Kohaku went slowly through the poison. His lungs ached fiercely, but it was as necessary as the glass shards that had slid into his feet. There was… not character building but… strength of character. Remembering that pain existed, and exhaustion, and a complete lack of will—__**I don't want to be that person anymore.**_

_He didn't want to stop caring, but there was someone important to care about. Her. Him__**.**__ Everyone—_

_(_There faces can't fade from his heart)

_An image floated by, coated in fever. Startled, Kohaku reached out, his fingers brushing the strange luminescence. The darkness dimmed—lightened?—and he could feel the warmth spreading, spreading, spreading. The tips of his fingers tingled, nerves firing rapidly as it inched forward. It felt as though he were being submerged in mud; cold, thick, consistent. The pressure grew, pressing against his hands and arms and shoulders and head and chest and __**everything, **__so _completely…

(he couldn't remember completeness, not before this)

"_I can make you forget."_

—_pleaseplease__**please—**_

He crept forward quietly, bleeding hand cradled to his chest. The kusarigama was strapped to his side, scarlet—little slivers, nothing too damaging, but the damage had been done. His pride smarted, the reprimand ringing clearly in his ears—there was shame, deep-rooted, because he would never be strong enough, not like his sister, not like the girl who was oh-so-_important_—

"You hurt yourself again, didn't you?"

The question was kind, concerned, but he couldn't stop the cringe of shame that had him tucking his bloodied hand in the fold of his clothes. The woman sighed lightly, and he glanced up, his brown eyes imploring. He couldn't take another reprimand, not from her.

The sun illuminated her, just as he remembered (_though how he could remember this and not __**everything else**__ was strange and odd and hurt and he was going to get it back, that other half of his existence)_ with a little yellow and black cat curled up in her lap. She watched him, worried and gestured him forward.

"Come here."

Her fingers were on his hand, gently probing and then, "What am I going to do with you?"

_And the clarity was there, ringing in the silence. Poison particles still clung to him, and something reminded him that he should be dead, but—he knew what to do now. Clarity was always so hard won. Kohaku refused to let the awareness slip away._

"Help me find it."

"Well, come on. Let's go—"

Quite suddenly, the words caught in her throat, trapped on a stuttering breath. Her eyelashes fluttered and the blood on his hand flowed freely, dripping from the tips of his fingers. She blinked, bemused, gazing down at the appendage before dropping it, the little yellow cat curling around her ankles and giving off a soft purr of comfort.

"Find what, Kohaku?"

Kohaku watched her closely. "The other half of my existence."

(_There's a demon in my skin.)_

She frowned, burgundy eyes glistening in the almost-sun. Hesitantly, she stood; the kimono rustled softly around her legs, and Kohaku could feel the mask start to break. She turned, heading towards the shoji doors; sandals were left on the stairs in an effort to avoid tracking dirt. Kohaku followed her lead, but then remembered—

_His feet were bare. Dirt and blood clotted the wounds on the bottom of his feet, some of the soft reconstruction tearing open every time he took a new step, only for the blood to harden into a vague sort of semi-permeable protection. The poison particles swarmed around the open wounds, prodding, and _

Kohaku was in the house.

"Training didn't go too badly, did it?" the woman with the bright burgundy eyes asked. Somewhere in his mind, a voice whispered _mother-sister-friend_. It had to be one of those. Or maybe all. Kohaku would figure it out.

"Father's upset with me."

She gave a soft sigh, spinning on her heel and taking Kohaku's hands into her.

"It'll get better, Kohaku, I promise. Even I—"

"—was perfect," Kohaku interrupted. "Always. I—I may not remember much_, _because that's… somewhere else. But I do remember _that_. I—"

_Lack the will._

(_Being a puppet was so much simpler.)_

"Kohaku—"

_Yet there was someone who did not want him to be a puppet. Someone who wanted him to __**have**__ will and—_

The threads were wrapped all around his wrists. He could see his family, weapons raised, battling against the dangerous demon that had descended upon the prince's house—a sickly prince, one who was _changing-changing-changing _because of its presence. Kohaku stood to the side, finally there and ready and _trained (but imperfect). _There was room for improvement, but nothing could take away from the heady rush of triumph, of finally being good enough, of finally being able to lift the kusarigama and send it slicing through the air, sinking into the muscle and tendons of the giant demons legs. Green ooze spilled out of the body like acid, acrid and disgusting. White plumes of smoke wafted into the air as the earth beneath the demon's legs were eaten up like fresh sustenance; Kohaku shifted the grip on his kusarigama, waiting, prepared, and then—

_Lack of control. Cessation of movement._

_**He truly was the puppet now.**_

His mother-sister-friend screamed. Somehow he had—

Bodies littered the ground. _Painful memories, painful thoughts, and suddenly, he wished he could be back to when she was holding his hand, back to when she was wiping away blood and wrapping it in bandages._

"_You'll do fine next time," she promised, cradling him close. "I'll help you to get better. But… Kohaku… do you even want to be a demon slayer?"_

(What have I _done_?)

There was still no control. Fighting against it was difficult, but he managed because he could hear someone crying—the mother-sister-friend that he loved—_loved—_and he saw them. His father. His uncle. The villagers who hunted down demons, who fought and slaved and struggled just to keep humanity afloat. These people, his _family_—

Shame. Deep rooted, agonizing shame coursed through him. And then—horror. Horror because there was blood soaking the earth, entrails steaming in the cooling night. Kohaku removed the mask from his face, limbs trembling violently. Blood, scarlet in the silver moonlight, gleamed at him from the curved blade; a sense of wrongness, of guilt, of _this-is-my-fault_ pervaded every sense, made his heart clench tightly and his lungs constrict; he couldn't breathe, there was no air in his lungs, his vision was starting to gray, _he had killed his family—_

"Kohaku!"

"_I'll do whatever it takes to stay close to you, San—"_

_**He truly was the puppet now.**_

(He gave her flowers, once.)

Tears streamed down his face. He wanted to run to her, to make it all go away. One moment, the sun was illuminating her dark-brown hair; one moment, there was victory. And then the next—_take them out, these demon slayers. I can see what's in your heart… you aren't made for this. Imagine how it must feel, being pushed when killing, murdering, staining your hands with blood is the thing you detest the most. You will never be like her, you know. Invincible. Strong. You are weak, useless. _

_You will never be—_

"Sango."

And then he remembered.

(_**Not the puppet, but the puppet **_master_**.**__)_

_(There's a demon in his skin.)_

Or his heart. Or just… _him._ But—there wasn't. It was absent.

(_Half-existing.)_

(He had to find it.)

Startling awake with a vicious gasp, Kohaku gripped his chest. The wound gave slightly, but there was no blood—the semi-permeable protection that had covered the wound was scarring harder and more violently with each passing day. It was getting harder to pull the red-red-life from his body, harder to see the color distort on his fingers. Because he was distorted, changed. Something had changed him, was still changing him, and no matter how hard Kohaku fought it, the fever would continue to linger, beading his brow and soaking the collar of his yukata. The hypothermia hadn't helped matters; it only served to draw him closer—(beyond reason, beyond comprehension)—to a man he was supposed to hate. Because Miroku had taken away Sango. Miroku had stolen her and kept her for himself and only shared the heat with _her._

(_except)_

Kohaku remained still, the chill wind of the outside cooling his sweat. Miroku was not far from him, on the other side of the dead campfire, his shakujou rested negligently against his shoulder and his arms were folded neatly in his lap in front of him. Usually, whenever Kohaku started awake, Miroku was sure to be there—aware, cognizant of the situation. Of Kohaku. But now—well, he was tired. The lines of Miroku's young adult face were slack, but the tension was still there (_a half, almost there kiss_), because he would never allow himself to relax around Kohaku, not even in sleep. Kohaku had stolen too much already (_heat-loyalty-monogamy_).

Once the harsh sound of his breathing had evened out, Kohaku stood, wobbly. Walking the entire day before had been tiresome; the very day after his proposal and horribly cruel misstep, Miroku was ushering Kohaku out of the hut, ready to find Sango, to find _sanity. _She would bring things back to order. Keep away the cruelty-not-cruelty, keep them separated. Stop the sharp surge of awareness that Kohaku felt whenever Miroku would walk into the room, the soft ruffling of his robes swept up and away on the wind.

Kohaku thought he understood it.

(_They had a demon in their skin.)_

(_except)_

Kohaku was quiet as death as he knelt beside Miroku, reaching out to brush the purple cloth and string of beads that surrounded the monk's hand. Kohaku watched, waiting for the monk to stir, but he didn't. There was just the faint echo of power—dark, venomous power—and it thrummed through his fingers, up his arm and lodging itself perfectly in his brain.

Kohaku's fingers fell away.

Turning, he moved towards the dead fire, wishing for warmth. It was strange to have a conscience, but it was probably stolen from him the moment the other-him—the demon, really, that hid beneath his skin—spirited it away. But he was getting it back. He was remembering.

There was always more than just the puppet.

And now that he could remember—the dreams, those horrible dreams with pain and glass sliding through flesh and dirt clogging bloody wounds and the man who was so important (_friend-puppet-guide, maybe he was being strung along just as masterfully as Kohaku_) and the girl who made his heart sing—they were faces that would never fade from his heart.

(_except_)

Lifting a hand, Kohaku brushed the back of his neck. An odd, half-there feeling spiked just as suddenly as a fever; more sweat dotted his brow, but Kohaku ignored it, the sweet promise of delirium. Leaving reality… was unacceptable. Finding Sango, well, that was priority. Making sure—Sango could not make a mistake. She was too perfect, too _invincible_ and Kohaku knew she would win. She would take her boomerang and rend the demon limb from limb. There would be nothing left. It would fade from existence, from everything it ever knew and Kohaku could not allow it to happen.

He finally understood.

(_There was a demon in his skin.)_

_(except)_

Quite suddenly, his fingers caught on the threads. Felt them go taut_. _And then—

Pin-prickle-_pull_.

(_**Not the puppet, but the puppet **__master.)_

The compulsion to leave dug deep down into Kohaku's stomach, but he held still. The kusarigama was still settled next to his bed roll; Miroku had been hesitant to let him bring it, but Kohaku had insisted. Above everything, he was still a _demon-slayer_ regardless of whether—_I'll do whatever it takes to stay close to you, Sango. _And he meant it. Always. Even though Naraku had kept them apart. (He gave her flowers, once.)

Still, a fear niggled deep in chest. Following the pull would be easy; he knew where it would lead him, if he thought to follow it. Yet… leaving Miroku… he thought back to the dreams, dreams which had once been catalogued in the vague haze of delirium. Thinking on them now… remembering all that the man had done for him… strength of character. Did he even have it? That condescending, mocking voice filtered into his head once again, whispering of his imperfections, reminding him that he would never, _could_ never be Sango.

And he would have to accept that. Sango was kindness and concern and beauty and strength. A hot, bursting need for revenge curdled the blood in her veins, but she never forgot—family first. Even when Kohaku had lifted that blade and cut through his family, Sango had been horrified but she knew… not Kohaku. _Never _Kohaku. It wasn't him. Had not been him. There was no way the boy who gave her flowers and loved her so unconditionally—_I'll do whatever it takes to stay close to you, Sango—_could just _slay_ their family… there had been so much blood… viscera had been everywhere, gleaming, disgusting, _human_…

Kohaku's hands shook as he released the threads. They had felt frayed, just like before. Trying to break away had been so difficult, but he hadn't realized before. Not sanity, not strength, but _will._ The strings that kept his will anchored to the demon scarred upon his skin… they had snapped, only to be replaced by some mockery, some delicious piece of him that seemed to have melted into existence, or half of one, because part of his will was still trapped in the past. In the venomous, vindictive hold of that monster, that demon, that _Naraku._

Naraku had made him forget.

(_There was more than just the short-lived triumph of slaying the giant spider demon, after all.)_

_(Every puppet needs a master.)_

And by doing so, by allowing that hanyou to delve into his brain and cut out the parts that mattered most—nothing. So long had Kohaku been submerged in the rich flavor of nothingness, losing more and more of himself as time went on. Yet… her face, Sango's face, remained etched within him. Her tears had caused something to break inside of him, something separating from the part of him that had simply become _Naraku's_ because will was inherent in every bone of his body. Will saturated Kohaku's cells and made his blood _flow, _because if there was anything his father had taught him, it was never to submit, to give up, to _die_ rather than be completely massacred by a _demon—_

Sango and he had fought so hard to be with one another. The undead miko have given up so much, yet the fragment had already been detached. Healing was near impossible because it had slipped away the moment the jewel shard in his back had been purified. Floating through the air, waiting to take form—and his thoughts had allowed it. Those poisonous, hateful thoughts guided by cruelty and jealousy and _despair_—

But he _remembered._

And Sango… Sango was happy.

_(except)_

Trembling, Kohaku stumbled forward. He understood far better than he ever wanted to. Understood what it meant to Sango, the center of his world, to have him with her. His life had been forfeit; he had been a ghost of what he used to be for so long… and to have him back, as well as have Miroku, the man she loved more than anything…

(_except Kohaku_)

Kohaku settled beside Miroku. He reached up, framed the monk's face in his hands and waited; eyelids flickered and opened, revealing misty dark depths full of—of—

Kohaku's chest warmed.

Slowly, Kohaku leaned forward, the impulse driven by something other than cruelty. He thought he understood it now, better than he had understood anything before and—he had made a decision. Felt his conscience spring back into existence because Sango was _hurting _and that was simply not acceptable.

Another nearly-there kiss was pressed against Miroku's mouth; Miroku stiffened, fingers clenching tightly around his shakujou, but Kohaku pressed further, harder, and then—

Miroku gently eased him back.

"Kohaku," Miroku said, strained and bleary. _Tired._

_(There used to be a demon in his skin._)

"You have my blessings," Kohaku said solemnly, a strange sort of soft agony ripping through his wounds and plunging into his heart.

Miroku's gaze sharpened.

Tentatively, Kohaku fingered the pull at the base of his neck—a desperate, pulsing _twang_ echoed down the line, and Kohaku surged to his feet, walking to his bed roll and snatching up the kusarigama. His slaying garb was kept in a cloth that he tied to his back; he felt Miroku track his movement with dark eyes, and even though the _intention _was there, Kohaku wished that it would remain hidden. At least until he could figure everything out.

He didn't want to abandon Miroku. Even though Kohaku had hated Miroku, spurned him, made Miroku's insides hurt with the give-give-_give_ Miroku always passed to Kohaku, he didn't want Miroku to be alone. Miroku had not abandoned Kohaku. Doing so to the other man was just… cruel.

Kohaku turned, catching Miroku's eye. Gave him a longing glance that left surprise and suspicion flitting across the older man's face. Leaving was hard because Miroku was _all he had left._ Kohaku was tired of being alone.

(_**When is **__my __**happiness?**_)

Kohaku left.

_(There was a demon in his skin.)_

It was—

(—_himself.)_


End file.
